


His Cage, His Queen

by lioness47



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Anal Sex, Angst, But Lots of Plot and Politics First, But the Eventual Porn will be Dark and Disturbing, Definitely Plot Before Porn, Dom/sub, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Eventual Kink, Eventual Smut, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Manipulation, Mind Games, Mindfuck, Non-Consensual Spanking, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Perversion, Politics, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spanking, Submission, Young/Silly Sansa in Prologue Only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2020-04-24 05:38:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 109,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19166890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lioness47/pseuds/lioness47
Summary: “A rare mistake. I had it backwards, you see,” he said, though the tone of his confession bore no hint of modesty the words implied. Instead, he advanced with evident threat.“I thought I would need to claim you in order to take the Iron Throne."One heavily-ringed hand grasped and lifted Sansa's chin. "When all along, I needed to take the Iron Throne in order to claim you.”Synopsis:AU: Ned was never Hand. Littlefinger arrives at Winterfell to persuade the Starks to join Joffrey's war. He departs, unsuccessful. But not before a series of secret meetings have caused the impressionable young Sansa to fall madly in love with Lord Petyr Baelish.That is, until she finds out the truth of all his deceptions, and the part they have played in the death and destruction that raged throughout the realm helping Lord Baelish come out King of the Ashes.Five years after they meet, the last kingdom holds out against the crown as Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, vows revenge.Of course, the amusing rivalry King Petyr has contrived between himself and Lady Sansa is nothing more than foreplay for his endgame.





	1. Prologue – The Southron Lord

**Author's Note:**

> Hold onto your smallclothes, ladies and gentlemen! Actually, it's pointless to try with Littlefinger in the room, he'll have them off soon enough if he so wishes :) 
> 
> But seriously, this will eventually be pretty raunchy, so please don't read it if extreme kink upsets you. I set out to write a my *dirtiest,* most shameful story yet. But somehow, it came out with much more plot and politics than I intended! 
> 
> Therefore, this is a slow burn/eventual sex story. If you're here for just the smut, it will be a few chapters of plot build up. But whether it's on a grand scale across the realm, or up close in the Baelish bedroom, it's all under the umbrella of a good mind fuck. 
> 
> Manipulation and mind fuckery. That is the Bae way. And he'll always have his way, in the end. 
> 
> Not that Lady Sansa isn't free to put up a good fight beforehand. Littlefinger rather enjoys it when his prey does.

Secrets are ill-kept in the confines of a castle, and Winterfell was no different. A visiting groomsman has a word with a kitchen maid, a maid gossips to the tanner, the tanner to the master-at-arms. 

So it wasn’t long before Sansa found out that the mysterious Southron Lord came with ulterior motives. 

Overtly, he visited as an emissary to persuade her father to join the wars between the Baratheon brothers and the late King Robert’s heir (or between the Baratheon brothers and the Lannister bastard, depending on which information you believed about King Joffrey’s legitimacy.) 

“Secretly,” Jeyne whispered in Sansa’s ear as they supped, the dark-haired Lord who knew her mother when they were young, was here to ask for her hand in _“marriage.”_

Sansa would have scarcely believed it true -- the man seemed much too old to be considered. But the bold way he looked at her across the great hall right now told her he _was_ interested.

No. That wasn’t quite right. Interested was too polite a word for this lord’s provocative gaze. It made Sansa feel as if he saw right through her gown to her bare flesh underneath. It even made Sansa feel as if this lord felt he had some _right_ to see beneath her gown, as possessive as if he’d already wed her. 

That a man could make her feel like something illicit had occurred between them without having said a word, with only the weight of his stare, gave Sansa a funny feeling in her stomach she was too inexperienced too understand. Though she’d recently flowered, she led a sheltered life at Winterfell, and certainly no suitors had sought her out yet with all the trouble brewing in the south putting everyone’s mind on matters other than tourneys and courting. 

Sansa looked back over at Lord Petyr Baelish once more and saw he continued to gaze at her. He raised his cup of wine in her direction as a sort of salute or greeting, and Sansa, cheeks growing red, quickly looked away. 

Lord Petyr Baelish might be handsome, but he was far too old for her. Wasn’t he? 

#

Sansa tossed in bed that night, unable to decide what worried her more -- if her father pledged his bannerman to the war, or if he didn’t. Because if not, it might come later to their doorstep, having grown even more destructive. 

Dorne was restless, the Iron Isles were raiding up and down the coast. Instability in the kingdoms spread, and Sansa supposed it was only a matter of time before they would be forced to join the fray. Many of their bannermen already rallied behind Stannis Baratheon, believing him to be the next rightful heir. Though if Lord Baelish had his way, they’d fight with the Lannisters and King Joffrey. 

To be honest, the more _personal_ question of the two weighed more heavily on her mind, as Sansa fluffed her pillow again, trying and failing to get comfortable.

Was Lord Petyr Baelish, whom she’d heard called Littlefinger, here to ask for her hand in marriage? 

Through some maneuvering in the early battles, the Master of Coin impressed the king enough to be granted the Lordship of Harrenhal. But that did not make him a suitable match for her, the eldest Stark daughter. 

Sansa did hope, however, that Lord Baelish could persuade her father to join the fighting. Perhaps then she could marry the handsome, young King Joffrey to solidify an alliance. Then she’d be _queen._

At that thought, Sansa sprang out of bed, sure sleep would elude her for the rest of the night. She donned her gown, slippers, and cape, and made her way through the tunnels of Winterfell to the glass gardens. It was her favorite place to be in the castle, besides the Godswood, which was too chilly at night. 

Sansa found her preferred bench and sat down, enjoying the solitude and the warmth the gardens retained, even after dark. 

“Having trouble sleeping, my lady?”

She jumped at the voice behind her, leaping to her feet. 

“I – Lord Baelish, you’ve startled me.” Modestly, she clutched her cape tighter across her chest. 

“Forgive me, Lady Sansa, that was not my intention.” 

“I’ve heard that-” she stopped and blushed. Sansa looked down at her feet, then over to the blue roses. Anywhere but Littlefinger’s eyes. _Why did she always blurt out whatever sprang into mind?_ Now she had to finish the sentence somehow. “I’ve heard that you’ve come with… other intentions.”

“Oh?”

Sansa pursed her lips. A lady didn’t say such things. She must have been delirious with lack of sleep. 

“Will you show me around the gardens?” Lord Baelish asked, saving her from responding. 

Sansa smiled gratefully, taking his arm. “It would be my pleasure, my lord.” 

They ambled around, Sansa pointing out various blooms and vegetables they grew to help through the northern winters, but when they finished their tour, they hadn’t finished their talk. 

Lord Baelish had a way of making the conversation flow, so that Sansa found herself chatting well into the night, well past the point of decency. Littlefinger asked questions in a way other lords and ladies did not. Not politely, as small talk. Lord Baelish asked as if he were genuinely interested in her replies – her mind and opinions. Of course, her mother and father engaged her in matters such as overseeing the kitchens, planning lessons with Septa Mordane, or embroidery patterns. 

But no one before ever asked a lady’s thoughts on war, or politics. 

Sansa was surprised to learn she even had them. 

Lord Baelish probed, queried, and didn’t even shy away from gently challenging her ideas and beliefs. They discussed Westerosi history, opinions on the great houses, the strengths and weaknesses of various battle strategies, philosophies on ruling, and many other topics never before addressed in her sewing circle. 

Hours passed with Sansa feeling less tired and more invigorated. The longer she spoke, the more a newfound confidence grew. 

In the span of one evening, she felt comfortable enough with Lord Baelish to confess, as they sat back down together on the bench where they started, “I heard that you came to Winterfell to propose a… a… _personal_ alliance.” She still blushed, but was able to meet his eyes this time. 

“It’s true,” the Southern Lord admitted, as effortlessly as if he were relating the proposal of someone else, or some other matter, entirely mundane. But she could see he watched closely for her reaction.

“I travelled north on behalf of King Joffrey, as well as for my own reasons. To seek your hand, Lady Sansa. Of course, your father will neither support Joffrey, nor will he agree to a marriage.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. She was taken aback by his easy confession, as well as the offhand manner in which he related that he already knew he would fail.

“Then why have you come? Why travel all this way if you know my father will already deny your request?”

“For you,” he said, with a gleam in his eyes. 

Despite Lord Baelish’s age, the open, gallant manner in which he revealed his heart made Sansa’s own heart skip a beat. His bold, unmasked attention made her feel lightheaded. She didn’t know what to say. She stood, and Lord Baelish followed her lead. 

“I’m sorry you came all this way knowing you wouldn’t succeed in your… endeavors.” 

“Success is determined at the end of an endeavor. Not the beginning. A lot can happen between now and then.”

Sansa blinked slowly, taking in his words. Did that mean he intended to continue his pursuit, despite her father’s refusal? 

“Things are going to change, my lady, and not for the better. This war will spread like wildfire.”

Sansa felt a shift in the conversation, like she wasn’t on as sure footing as before. Something about Littlefinger had changed; he was being intentionally vague. 

Feeling for a way forward, Sansa matched his ambiguity. “I imagine the spread of wildfire depends heavily on the winds.”

For some reason, that made Lord Baelish tip the side of his mouth up into a half-grin.

“Indeed, my lady. Let’s hope the winds are kind, and do not blow the flames this far north.” 

Sansa’s skin tingled at his untroubled manner, feeling there was a deeper meaning she couldn’t yet grasp, but it pricked at her mind and she stored it away for later inspection. 

“A wolf can only outrun the fire so long, I suppose,” she sighed, hoping to goad Lord Baelish into revealing more. Then her eyes caught the flash of the pin at his throat, and it struck her. 

“But a bird simply flies above the flames.” 

Littlefinger scrunched his lips, this time as if trying to contain a grin, and even though Sansa didn’t quite know how or what it meant, she knew she’d hit something at the heart of the matter. 

Lord Baelish reached out and touched a piece of her hair. “You have your mother’s coloring. Tully hair.” 

He rubbed the strands between his fingers, then said, “a fish can also swim away, unscathed.”

#

Wolves are generally nocturnal creatures, and Sansa was at least half wolf, so she justified her nocturnal behavior over the course of the next few days as doing only what she was born to do. 

Without agreement, without planning, without even seeming to decide, she met Lord Baelish nightly in the glass gardens, carried there by the independent will of her own feet.

Besides, it felt _romantic_ sneaking out to meet the handsome, elder lord, under the stars, amongst the fragrant blossoms. 

He wasn’t at all as she imaged a suitor to be. Littlefinger was smarter than anyone she’d ever met, and Sansa never thought that would be a quality so attractive to her, but it was. Moreover, he made _her_ feel smarter than anyone else ever had, and there was something so compelling about that, as well. 

On the third night they met in the gardens, Lord Baelish reached out one heavily ringed hand, gently titled her chin up to his face, and kissed her. 

Every evening after that, he reached over and kissed her whenever the moment struck him, and Sansa didn’t protest that the moment seemed to strike him at least once a night. She couldn’t. His tongue felt so good probing her mouth, her body weakened and she gave herself over to it. 

Sansa couldn’t pinpoint the moment when she changed her mind, when she _wanted_ the clever Southern lord to ask for her hand, when she _wanted_ her father to say yes, when she _wanted_ to become his wife. But the days turned into weeks, and by the time Lord Baelish’s visit had concluded, Sansa had fallen helplessly in love with the charming, older lord. Had it only been a fortnight? 

She vowed she would convince her mother and father to allow them to marry. After all, they always said her happiness was all they cared about, and Lord Baelish made her so happy. 

#

Sansa threw her sewing onto the stone floor, breaking the embroidery hoop as she stood up to her parents, chin held high. 

“I’ll love him forever,” Sansa cried, protesting the verdict they’d just delivered. Then her lip quivered and hot tears streamed down her face. As she ran from the room she sobbed, “I won’t ever marry someone else. I won’t!” 

Lord Petyr Baelish departed, without her hand and without an alliance for King Joffrey, just as he predicted. 

Sansa was beside herself, sure the sun would never shine again. It had no right to. She didn’t want it. She wanted only to be back in the moon-drenched gardens with the man she loved. 

Sansa loved Petyr Baelish more than anyone in all the realm.


	2. Shall We Begin?

Sansa hated Petyr Baelish more than anyone in all the realm. 

She hated herself too – the idiot she’d been back then. She’d been too old to act the lovesick child. Gods, the embarrassment still stung. 

Even alone in her room, she covered her face against it. Her hands balled into fists, and she resolved for the umpteenth time to never let anyone play her false again, and to seek her revenge on Petyr Baelish. 

The stoic Lady of Winterfell was no longer given to public fits of emotion. It was only in private she plotted against Littlefinger. 

Littlefinger, who was responsible for tearing the kingdoms apart. Littlefinger, who’s meddling lead to the deaths of her father, mother, and brothers. 

Mercifully, Jon and Bran lived, but they were north of the wall. Arya remained begrudgingly by her side, but she took no interest in helping run Winterfell. 

Sansa felt alone. Sometimes she wondered if Petyr designed it that way. _Sought_ to kill her family and isolate her. 

On his visits north, Lord Varys told her the deaths of her kin were the inevitable results of war, but he didn’t know _everything,_ did he? 

Lord Varys knew enough though, and over the past year he shared his knowledge about the deceitful Lord Baelish. About all the traitorous plans he hatched, the power plays he set in motion, the underhanded pitting of house against house. 

_Fanning the wildfire, like the wind._

“My lady?” came a voice at her bedchamber door, interrupting her thoughts. The hour grew late, what ill news came now? 

“Yes?” Sansa asked, rising from her bed and grabbing a robe for cover.

The door opened, and Sansa relaxed at bit to see Maester Luwin. He stepped aside and two Winterfell soldiers came forth, carrying a black trunk between them.

“Coin, my lady. Hundreds of silver moons from Lord Bryndyn Tully.” 

Sansa’s heart clenched at mention of her uncle. The Blackfish had fallen, along with Riverun, several weeks ago. She rushed over to the trunk. Sure enough, there was a fish emblazoned on the top of the chest. Sansa threw it open, stunned at the sight of so many coins resting upon the green, silk-lined interior. 

“A rider delivered it, and quickly rode off.”

“The guards didn’t offer him a bed for the night? Or at least detain him so that I might question him?” Sansa, asked, unable to keep the annoyance out of her voice. She wanted to hear what last words her uncle may have had. She needed better guards. 

At the maester’s silence, Sansa said, “Well, bring it inside, please.” 

The guards did as bid, then left, for her to consider the bounty in private. She dug around, but found no accompanying note. There must not have been time. Her uncle must have sent the chest out secretly, in haste, knowing the castle would fall. Or, perhaps during the battle he’d stolen it from the Lannisters somehow, Silver Moons being their preferred coin, after Dragons. 

Sansa spent hours on the floor, running the treasure through her fingers, considering the best use for the unexpected bounty. It could buy a good amount of steel for her men. Food for several garrisons. It was a great gift, indeed. While perhaps not enough to buy and sail a ship of her own, if she’d been a commoner and put it to personal use, it was prize enough to run a household across the Narrow Sea, with at least a few servants. 

But Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell – soon to be Queen of the North, if her bannermen had their way. While lost in all the potential purchases for her army, she eventually realized that morning would soon come and she needed sleep. 

Climbing into bed, it wasn’t long until her thoughts returned to the war. 

And to _him._

Something about her bed did that to her. 

Years ago, as the realm descended into fighting, it became inevitable for the North to join. One by one the kingdoms rebelled against the crown, forging alliances with houses they later turned on and fought against. A succession of tragedies saw the Baratheon heirs die, even ending the short reign of King Tommen and Queen Margaery, when the Great Sept of Balor collapsed in a wildfire explosion, claiming both their lives. 

Chaos fell upon the land. 

And the worse things got, the higher Lord Baelish rose. 

_Like a bird above the flames._

Just as she unwittingly predicted in the garden all those years ago. 

Lord of Harrenhal. Lord Parmount of the Trident. And upon Twyin Lannister’s death at the hands of his son Tyrion, eventual Hand of King Tommen and then, Queen Cersei. 

Only Sansa understood. He’d always planned this. Played a long game. 

She tossed under her fur blanket, turning away from the dying fire. Day would soon break, there was no point in attempting to sleep any longer. She’d spent too much time in her room recently anyway. As soon as the sun rose, she’d call her maid to ready clothes for riding. 

Sansa stretched, and, bare-footed, paced her room, eyeing the black chest and thinking on the war. 

Just when the fighting finally seemed to be coming to an end - at least in the South - when the Lannisters had won and Queen Cersei sat the Iron Throne… the Dragon Queen flew into Westeros and overthrew her, burning half of King’s Landing as she conquered. 

Who could have foreseen her attack? 

Well, Varys, for one. He’d even been encouraging it, once. 

But he abandoned Queen Daenerys’s court while still in Essos, instead sending messages to and visiting Winterfell, the last kingdom left with any hope, however small, of standing up against either monarch. 

Sansa sat at her bedroom desk, waiting impatiently for the light to grow, for a more polite time to awaken her maid. 

She looked over the last of Varys’s messages. The tone had changed in recent months and Sansa had read and re-read each scroll, trying to figure out what hidden meaning lay in his words. They sounded too perfect, too calculated. Was someone forcing him to write them? Was someone else reading them? 

Restless, Sansa rose once more, paced to the chest of coins, then her window. She stared out at the first green buds of early spring, barely perceptible in the early morning light.

Varys had not been alone in Essos. 

One step ahead, Lord Petyr Baelish had somehow switched sides, maneuvered to Queen Daenerys’s court and fed her information about how to beat Cersei. It was as much the fact that Daenerys named Petyr her Hand, as well as the Queen’s unstable behavior, that made Varys return to Westeros, where he informed to Sansa all he knew. 

Little good it did when the Dragon Queen flew into King’s Landing, burning Queen Cersei, her brother Jaime Lannister, and destroying half the city in the attack. 

Though it was certainly the most tragic, it wasn’t even the most shocking turn of events. 

A few weeks after taking the throne, seemingly of natural causes and without producing a blood heir, Queen Daenerys suddenly died. Alone in her bed at night, without a word of warning or sign of distress. Her dragons flew back to Volantis. 

And even _that_ wasn’t the most shocking turn of events. 

The most alarming, _infuriating_ news came by raven the very next day, with a seal Sansa instantly recognized and detested. Her blood boiled before she even opened the scroll.

The late Queen Daenerys had named her Hand, her heir. 

Lord Petyr Baelish. 

King Petyr Baelish, Sansa reminded herself. 

_The wind blew the flames, and the bird flew above it all._

The bastard. 

At the reminder of those words, Sansa’s mouth fell open and she froze. 

_Could it be…_

She sprinted two steps to the chest and threw herself down before it. 

Sansa ran her hands along the inside edge. A whipstitch of leather had been a curious choice to sew the delicate silk lining to the chest, surely it would tear with use. 

Was there a message hidden beneath? _Perhaps…_

Grabbing a blade from her desk, Sansa cut the leather cord and pulled the silk lining from the chest, sending the coins clattering back noisily to the bottom. 

Heart pounding, she held the silk up, examined the front and back. 

Empty. 

Sansa threw it on the rug beside her, then dove into the chest, pulling out fistfuls of coin and tossing them onto the discarded lining next to her, desperate to reach the base. 

She finally did and… 

Nothing. 

Frowning, Sansa brought her hand to her mouth in thought. She sat back on her knees, brow furrowed. Then, slowly, she rose. 

Had she lost her mind? She’d been sure something would have been hidden there, she suspected…

That’s when she saw it. 

The corner of her eye caught the green silk lining to her left, now littered with silver coins scattered across its length. Sansa’s heart sped. 

The silk had been cut, oddly, with curved sides meeting in a point at the base, like a shield. Laid flat it bore the heraldic look of a sigil… and the silver coins had scattered across the expanse…

It gave the effect of a green field with mockingbirds in flight. The sigil of House Baelish. 

_Bastard. That bloody bastard._

Sansa slammed the lid of the trunk closed, taking another look at the fish carved into the top. 

It wasn’t the fish of House Tully. At least, not in its usual curved form. 

Now that she looked closer, the fish was _swimming away._

Sansa narrowed her eyes at the chest, the coins. Her breath grew heavy and her hands balled into fists. 

This wasn’t from uncle at all. This was from Petyr Baelish. This was a _message._

Telling her, as he’d told her all those years ago, that _“a fish can swim away, unscathed.”_

He knew her skill with the needle, knew the irregular stitch of the silk lining would catch her eye.

Was it a gift? A taunt? A challenge? 

A threat? 

Subtle, sneaky, but she was suddenly sure. It was _him._ Perhaps buying her off, giving her coin to set up a new life in Pentos. Perhaps he’d only sent it in mocking; after all, it wasn’t like she needed it. 

But Sansa knew this much. King Baelish was telling her he was coming for the North. 

And she could run away, or stay and fight. 

Sansa picked up one silver moon, flipping the shining circle over in her hands. 

She smiled. If her grin was one-sided, reminiscent of the smirk of another, she failed to notice. 

She was too preoccupied, because she now knew _exactly_ how she’d put this coin to best use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I consolidated the backstory/timelines as much as possible, so there may be some variation there to get up to speed in this alternate history. 
> 
> Also, I took some liberty with coin valuation. 
> 
> Lastly, I used the ASOIAF sigil for House Baelish, not the single-bird version that's commonly found.


	3. Moves and Countermoves

Sansa quickly solidified the Stark-Frey alliance by dangling the prospect of her marriage to one of Walder’s sons. She turned and implied the same to the Dornish Prince. 

Littlefinger moved with bewildering speed _and_ bewildering motives. Because he didn’t attack, he rebuilt. 

King Petyr Baelish didn’t bring further turmoil to the realm by immediately marching north. In truth, most of his early rule wasn’t known to be _bad._

And for Sansa, that was worse. 

The more the six kingdoms supported him, the less aid she could rally to defend the North’s independence. 

“Excuse me,” she said to Maester Luwin, taking leave of the training yard one brisk spring morning. In a gloved hand she clutched the latest raven’s scroll. 

She stopped and turned on her heel. 

“Has Theon awoken?” 

“I will go and see, Your Grace” Maester Luwin replied. 

“Please. And send him to my chambers once he’s well enough.” 

Theon, missing and presumed dead, had returned to Winterfell the night prior, exhausted but recently healed from grave wounds. Sansa wept with joy to see him. But as time passed, she felt jittery to receive a full account of what had happened to him after their success at Stonehelm, when their men intercepted several shipments of weaponry from Essos, bound for King’s Landing. 

Sansa had smiled at her triumph, months ago, imagining Littlefinger’s surprise at their having stolen it from right under his nose. Miscommunications, excuses, and delays the Dornish Prince provided _conveniently_ caused the shipment to be re-routed from Sunspear, to Stonehelm – and right into their plundering hands. 

Then the raven arrived. 

“There’s no indication of the sender,” Maester Luwin had said, pointing out the seal without sigil. 

Sansa’s breath caught, she steadied her voice before replying. “There’s no need. I know who it’s from.” 

And she would have known the sender’s words, even if she hadn’t known his script. 

_Well done,_ was all it said. 

She could even hear Littlefinger’s tone in it – not a begrudging admission of her victory. Rather, amusement. As if he, the teacher, were pleased with her progress under his tutelage. 

Fire couldn’t scour the memory of his _teachings_ their last night together in the glass gardens, though Sansa would have tried if there existed any hope to burn it out of her mind. 

The commands started gently enough. _Sit,_ he’d whisper, patting the seat next to him - the “please” surely _implied,_ if not spoken. By the end of his visit, he’d issue a deeper, more forceful, _come here,_ and Sansa would comply, noticing the change, but unable to determine when it occurred. 

Until, finally…

 _Kneel,_ he’d said, that last night, as the fading stars told them it was almost time to part. And when she’d hesitated, _kneel,_ he repeated.

Sansa obeyed, despite her confusion. 

Lord Baelish had stepped closer, towering over her. 

“You are the dutiful daughter, aren’t you?” he said, rubbing his thumb over her lips.

She, the absolute idiot, _preened,_ smiling and gazing up through her lashes. 

“Yes, my lord,” she agreed, pleased to exhibit such desirable qualities he sought in a wife.

Both what happened next and what _didn’t,_ perplexed her.

Years later, she knew. It aroused him to overpower her – she had seen the evidence harden beneath his breeches – and she also understood, a sick part of him thrilled at debasing the daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark in their own home. 

Sansa shook her head, clearing the mortifying memory of how easily he’d manipulated her. 

She had often wondered if she’d created the whole rivalry in her mind, until that first note arrived. 

It wasn’t the last. 

It made her feel as if she couldn’t win. When Littlefinger outmaneuvered her, he savored it. When she bested him, he took an almost equal enjoyment in her achievement. 

#

Sansa clutched the royal scroll in the privacy of her chambers. 

The King’s Road – right up to Castle Black - would be seeing repairs this year, after suffering heavy damage over the course of the war. 

King Petyr couldn’t have so obviously just announced his plan to march an army north, under the guise of road repair. So that meant he _wouldn’t_ strike from the Neck. 

Unless… was he counting on Sansa to now dismiss the obvious notion, because the note was a ploy to make her _not_ suspect an attack from the King’s Road?

Which was it? 

With an exasperated sigh, Sansa threw the scroll onto the growing pile at her desk. 

_Games._ She could almost imagine his self-satisfied grin as he sat his throne, playing cat and mouse from afar. 

She’d already guessed incorrectly once, in thinking Littlefinger would want to reclaim the North as quickly as possible. They were in open rebellion, if not full-on war, after all. 

And Petyr’s enemies – what was left of them – rapidly died or disappeared once he took the throne. 

Sansa readied for an invasion, but Littlefinger turned his focus to rebuilding. Roads, towers, endless jobs encouraging the growth of trades. Even for a former Master of Coin, the funding seemed miraculous. 

_Gold wins wars, not soldiers,_ he’d told her. How could he afford to restore the kingdom and invade the North? Therefore, he must have needed to delay his attack, she reasoned.

Some had gone so far as to stop calling him King of the Ashes and proclaimed him, _Petyr the Prosperous._ Sansa nearly rolled her eyes at the thought. 

Only _now,_ after many months, did he begin to mobilize his men. 

Littlefinger was coming for her. She felt it. 

It was the one good thing came out of her childish pining for Lord Baelish all those years ago. As she (gods help her) cried herself to sleep each night, she replayed their conversations over and over. She never forgot the things he told her, any of it. His words had hardened like steel in her mind.

It was almost as if he, in some perverse way, tried to prepare her for this. 

_“You have so much to learn, little girl,”_ he’d said that last night, as she lay on her back, without being sure how exactly she got there. 

_Oh, and you’re the one to teach me,_ she’d thought. Well. She _swore_ she thought the retort, only, with his fingers in her mouth, she couldn’t form the words. 

"Suck,” he’d said – and she hated this part of the memory – because the love-sick, eager-to-please idiot did as she was told. Then he coaxed one of her own hands to her mouth, and pressed her to suck her own fingers. 

“Tell me sweetling, have you ever, in your bedchambers at night, reached down and touched yourself?” he’d asked, causing her to redden to her ears. He guided her hand up and under her robes. 

Sansa shook her head. Jeyne did. But Sansa wasn’t sure it was right. After all, the Seven-Pointed-Star read, _“congress doesn’t require desire on the woman’s part, only patience.”_

“Pleasure is very important to a husband,” Lord Baelish had whispered as he leaned over her, and Sansa couldn’t dispute that simple statement. 

“His. Yours.” 

That too seemed logical, but when he guided her finger inside herself, with his own pressing up behind it, she gasped in shock and tried to pull away. 

On the stone floor, there was nowhere else to go. 

Lord Baelish crooked his finger toward himself and it was as if an invisible hook inside her pulled at the same time. Sansa arched her back with a cry of pleasure, her free hand flew to grasp the top of Littlefinger’s arm, near his shoulder. 

“Keep going, like this,” he whispered. His tone, edged with desire for _her,_ aroused Sansa. Lord Baelish continued a rhythmic in-and-out motion before withdrawing his finger.

“Now here,” he said, sliding it up and running the tip gently over the nub of her pleasure. Sansa screamed at the sharp jolt of bliss that shot through her and Littlefinger quickly covered her mouth with his other hand. He circled a few more times, and Sansa moaned, muffled beneath his palm. 

“You’re mine,” he said, voice a rasp in her ear. He removed the delicious pressure of his hand, though neither of them had any completion. He pushed himself up, licking her essence from his fingers with a wicked look in his eyes. 

Littlefinger departed Winterfell the next day, and when Sansa’s tears dried that night and each night after, she would touch herself, thinking of Lord Baelish. 

But that was long ago, before she had opened her eyes to all the ugly truths about life, about _him._

Now, they were now locked in a game. 

Winner-takes-all. 

He in the south, she in the north... 

And he’d just taken one of the prized pieces from her side of the board. 

Sansa tossed the latest scroll from Varys back onto her desk. _Useless._

She leaned forward and rubbed her temples, trying to figure out her next steps. 

Sansa had assumed Varys would be executed when Petyr took the Iron Throne - _not named Hand._ Whatever Littlefinger had on the eunuch to bend him into service, must have been something big. 

But Sansa still had another piece left to play. 

As if on que, a soft, hesitant knock sounded on her door. 

“Your Grace?” came Theon’s voice. 

“Please, enter,” Sansa called. 

#

Sansa listened carefully while Theon related a tale of severe injuries sustained in the raid at Stonehelm. He’d been fortunate to have a band of healers come upon him, and, without knowing his true identity, care for him these many months until he could make the journey north. 

Sansa thanked the gods for his luck, and when he had finished, she related her plan. 

Theon would return to the Iron Islanders - busy squabbling amongst themselves - to take charge of what remained of the fleet. While most of it lay at the bottom of Blackwater Bay, along with Theon’s sister Yara and Uncle Euron, not all of their ships had been destroyed in the Battle of King’s Landing. 

Once successful, Theon would sail for White Harbor, and add his ships to hers. No one could expect it, because no one knew he lived. 

The Freys, The Iron Islands, and the tentative, occasional alliance with Dorne. It was a start. 

Theon hugged Sansa again before departing, but as he stood in the doorway, she remembered the raven about the repairs to the King’s Road. 

“And Theon,” Sansa called. “Tell the new master-at-arms to prepare a garrison for Moat Cailin.” 

_If Petyr attacked from the Neck, they’d be ready._

Theon bowed, and turned to leave. 

“No wait!” Sansa called, holding up her hand. “Never mind. There’s no need.”

 _It’s a ploy,_ she thought. _Littlefinger only did this to weaken her force._

Theon titled his head in question, then nodded, and turned toward the door once more.

“No, wait, Theon!” 

“Sansa?” Theon asked, looking at her as if she might be ill. 

_Seven hells,_ she thought. _Was Littlefinger planning to attack from the King’s Road or not?_

Sansa took a steadying breath. She was acting _exactly_ how Lord – _King_ Baelish wanted her to, she knew it. 

He was purposefully unsettling her. He’d said as much when they met. 

_You can give people the tools for their own destruction and they’ll do the work themselves,_ he laughed. _No need to sully your hands in the process._

“Never mind. That will be all. Thank you, Theon.” 

Once alone, Sansa crossed to the window overlooking Winterfell’s courtyard. Snow melted into muddy puddles dotting the fields. Buds on the trees grew more pronounced each day. 

_Why had Littlefinger seemed to arm her for these battles, with intimate knowledge of the way his mind worked?_

If this was a game, it was a game with _lives_ at stake. 

Yet Sansa had the bizarre thought that to Petyr Baelish, this might be some twisted idea of… foreplay? 

Sansa was never sure if, on their last night together, Lord Baelish sought only to educate her, to leave her with instruction in his absence… or if the entwining of her first self-pleasure with the memory of his own skillful hands was a much more devious design. 

Intentional or not, the result was if he had marked her, dripped wax onto her private thoughts and sealed them with his sigil, so that each time she lifted her gown alone in bed and sought the secret places in her mind, she had to crack the silver mockingbird to proceed. 

She hated to admit it back then, when she nearly shook with anger at the mention of his name - yet still couldn’t scour his image from her mind as her legs shook with pleasure. 

But that was years ago. The Lady of Winterfell had long since banished Littlefinger from her intimate thoughts, and the Queen in the North had little time for such matters. 

Petyr Baelish held no power over her now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter of build-up plot before things get going (physically moving along) in the next chapter, which will be up in a day or two.


	4. Come to Me

Grim-faced, Maester Luwin shuffled into her room. 

“I have brought ill news, Your Grace.” 

Sansa took the scroll from his outstretched hand, turning it over in her own. 

A Kraken. Theon’s raven. 

Hurriedly, Sansa broke the seal. 

Her heart sank into her stomach. 

_I am being held, along with the Iron Islands, by the King’s men. Twenty thousand soldiers march east from Tohrren’s Square, toward Winterfell. I beg of Your Grace to surrender. Your brother and loyal subject, Theon Greyjoy._

“How did you know what this said?” Sansa demanded, confused. She had to steady her shaking hand.

“Lord Varys and a company of twenty await at the gates,” Maester Luwin replied, defeat marking his wrinkled brow. 

Sansa’s mouth fell open. Could it be true?

Littlefinger’s army marched near, and his Hand knocked at her door?

She had failed. Lost. Before they ever really began. 

“Thank you, Maester Luwin, I… I will see him now.” 

Head high, back straight, expression blank. Sansa made her way through the castle to the gates of Winterfell, to meet the old friend who betrayed her. 

#

“Lord Varys,” she greeted him cordially. He wore heavy, brocade robes for warmth against the northern spring. Two guards flanked his left and right, same as she. 

“Lady Sansa,” he replied. 

Sansa kept her face plain, forcing him to speak first. She wouldn’t offer food. She wouldn’t offer a more comfortable place to discuss terms. He wasn’t here as a guest. He was here to threaten war or treat for their surrender, nothing more. 

“By now you’ve learned of our positions?” he asked, eyebrows raised. 

“I have.” Sansa acknowledged. 

“You cannot win. The North will fall.” 

Sansa paused, raising her own eyebrows in return. “And you’ve come to… what? Warn me?” 

“I’ve come to offer another way.”

Sansa pursed her lips, not daring hope. There was none where Littlefinger was concerned. 

“His Grace will call back his army. He will not invade the North and slaughter thousands of your men. He will release Theon Greyjoy.”

Sansa barely listened. King Petyr, the trickster, would do none of those things. 

“He will grant the North certain freedoms no other kingdom has been given, freedoms you’ve not had since Torrhen Stark first bent the knee.” 

At these words, Sansa blinked, surprised. 

“If?” she asked cautiously. “What does King Petyr the _peaceful_ want in return for such benevolence?”

Varys looked momentarily uncomfortable – or was it regretful? Sansa wasn’t sure. 

“You’re to come to King’s Landing as his… guest.” 

#

Prisoner was more like it, and they both knew it. 

Hot anger coursed through her veins, making her arms tingle. 

Sansa strode with purpose, leading Varys to the Godswood. When they reached the Weirwood, she turned.

“Tell me, what has Littlefinger promised you, what has he threatened, to get you to serve as Hand?” 

The Master of Whispers gave a small shrug, “He’s made me no promise or threat. I do what I believe is best for the realm.” 

Sansa watched his face carefully. She’d always been good at reading people, and, oddly, there was something true about what Varys said… but there was also something he obscured. And though he served, he still didn’t _like_ the king. 

“Allow me to ask two questions which you will answer with total honesty,” Sansa began, eyes trained on Varys’s face. “If you do, if I _believe_ you do, I will not call my men to cut you down here and now,” she motioned to her own guards by her side, sure now that Varys did not want to die in the service of Littlefinger. 

Neither did she. King Petyr might be lying to entrap her, poised to kill her the moment she set foot in King’s Landing. Or… worse… 

Swallowing, Sansa continued, “I will cooperate and give you my answer, without bloodshed. _If_ you answer two of my questions with honesty. But you must swear. Swear it by the old gods, and the new. Swear it on the realm.” 

The severe countenance on Varys’s face told Sansa that not only was he considering her offer, but she sensed there might be something more, something he was _afraid_ she would ask. Varys held a secret, bigger than whatever pulled him into Littlefinger’s court, and she just had to hit the right mark.

But then his face glazed over again, and she wondered if she imagined it.

“If I go, will King Petyr openly discuss selected freedoms for the North - to the end that we will actually _achieve_ some?”

Lord Varys nodded, closing his eyes in a slow blink. 

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. That was no small victory. If she failed to gain her people an independent kingdom, at least she could lay the groundwork for some liberties.

One more question left. She had to make it a good one. 

“If I go, will I ever return?”

Lord Varys shook his head with genuine sincerity, and just a touch of sadness.

Well then, Sansa thought, a heavy feeling in her gut. _At least I know._

Later, much later, when it was too late to do anything about it… Sansa learned she asked the wrong question. 

And everything could have been different if she’d only known. 

#

“Alright. Return to the king and let him know that I will consider his offer. He will have my reply by the next turn of the moon-”

At the strained look on Varys’s face, Sansa cut herself off. She quickly understood. 

“How long do I have to make a decision?

“Until we reach the conclusion of this conversation. You must leave today.”

His words sent her head spinning. Today? She had no time to call her bannermen to discuss. To send a raven to Castle Black. She could let Arya know at least. If she went, Arya would run Winterfell in her absence. Gods, she would hate it. Lately she’d been blabbering on about wanting to sail to Braavos to meet some Face Men. 

Sansa had counted on Littlefinger being unable to simultaneously rebuild _and_ invade this fast, she needed more time to gain allies. The Boltons had been killed long ago, in a clash only weeks after the one that killed her mother and father. Too close to be natural, it still nagged at her. 

And it came as no surprise when she lost the Vale, her aunt having pledged quick support of Petyr’s reign. Expecting to be named queen, Sansa knew. 

Sansa nearly laughed to imagine the mummer’s farce King Petyr had to undertake in order to sate her aunt and keep her at bay in the Eyrie as long as he had. 

With her stomach sinking like she’d swallowed a heavy stone, Sansa replied, “I accept the king’s offer to discuss the Northern surrender _with_ the condition of the establishment of select Northern freedoms. I will travel south today.”

She felt as if she uttered the words of her own doom. She nodded and turned to take her leave.

“My lady,” Varys called out, the edge in his voice stopping her. 

Sansa turned, puzzled at his troubled expression. 

“I must ready my things and prepare for the long journey,” Sansa said, furrowing her brow as she studied him. 

It dawned on her.

“I’m not travelling with my guard,” she said, bringing her hand to her lips. “Am I?”

“Please, my lady, your transport awaits just outside the gates.” 

Sansa fisted her hand, digging her nails into her palms until it hurt. 

Inside, she screamed. Outside, she lifted her chin and said, “you will allow me to discuss with my sister what needs to be done, before departing.” 

Varys nodded. 

“I assume you’re to accompany me until we take our leave?”

He nodded once more. 

#

With leaden feet, Sansa made her way to the ostentatious carriage. Clearly, this belonged to the king, if not apparent from the grand scale, certainly from silver mockingbirds flanking the door. Northerners preferred to travel by horse, so if the windows, barred and small, were unusual, Sansa didn’t first notice. 

She wore a dress of dark blue, laced to the neck. She thought she’d been clever to hide, within her boot, the dagger Arya slipped her as they parted. But one of the burly guards checked both shoes before she entered the carriage, found the weapon, and tossed it aside. 

It wasn’t until Sansa hoisted herself inside – refusing the servant's hand for assistance - and sat down on the plush cushions of the gray interior, that the hairs on her neck began to tingle. 

The carriage door slammed shut, and she heard the metal click of a lock. 

Sansa sprang from the pillows. 

“Lord Varys!” she shouted, pulling the door handle, which refused to budge. 

His bald head appeared through the bars. 

“Forgive me, my lady. We must keep you safe on this long journey.” 

_Horseshit._

“That’s a lie! Let me out!” 

But his head disappeared and when the carriage jolted forward and Sansa let out a small, frustrated cry. She pulled on each of the window bars, then huffed as she looked around for something to help. 

So many pillows, so much metalwork, the carriage interior was a jarring contrast to the stark northern aesthetic. She briefly wondered if she could pry some of it off as a makeshift weapon to replace her dagger. 

On the seat opposite, Sansa caught the glint of a silver box she hadn’t seen upon entering. 

Rushing to it, she threw open the lid. 

Inside, she found a pair of shackles and a scroll, the wax seal stamped with one shiny, gray mockingbird. 

Her pulse raced as she read the gently curving script, the very arches of the letters seeming to convey a sort of easy confidence. 

_Be a good girl and put these on, won’t you?_

Uncaring what the servants thought, Sansa howled in anger. Littlefinger had a way of getting under her skin, so that the stoic Queen in the North reverted right back to emotional girl of five-and-ten she’d been when she first met Petyr Baelish. 

She pushed the note, then the shackles, through the bars in the window and onto the ground outside, where they landed with a soft and satisfying thud. 

She expected one of the riders to pick them up, perhaps return the shackles to her and force her into them. 

But as she peaked out the window, she saw they lay where she threw them, forgotten in the grass. 

Perplexed, Sansa lowered herself back onto the seat. 

Then her mouth drew into a line and she shook her head. 

_Of course._ Littlefinger knew she’d react that way. He’d already advised her escorts to ignore it. He was toying with her. 

Like a rabid dog, Sansa attacked the carriage, tossing aside pillows until, seeing another scroll, she drew back, gasping. 

Quickly, she opened the message. 

_I don’t need shackles to possess you, sweetling._

_Oh, and under the seat I have provided some amusement for you to pass the days until we meet again._

Even the curve of his script seemed smug. 

Sansa let out another frustrated howl. She imagined smacking the smug look right off Littlefinger’s face as he sat his Iron Thone. Maybe even slicing his throat so that he could never smirk again. 

Falling to her knees, she found a hidden compartment under the cushions. 

There, she withdrew three books. The first, _A Caution for Young Girls,_ was no caution at all, Sansa knew. The infamous tale followed Lady Coryanne Wylde as she descended into the helpless life of a slave and plaything for various men and women throughout Essos. Each time a man copied the book it grew more debauched, until it became the highly-sought tale of erotica Sansa now held. 

The next two Sansa had never heard of: the ridiculously named _Complete Compendium of Lyseni Pleasure Houses and Their Specialties_ and _Bedding the Bastard, Vol II._

Of course the whoremaster took pleasure in perusing such filth, she thought. 

After searching and finding no scraps of parchment hidden within, Sansa shoved the volumes aside. She stared at the passing trees until, bored, her attention returned to the carriage, and the waiting books. 

Was it her imagination, or did the lines of metalwork throughout the carriage’s interior resemble bars? 

Littlefinger was right, he didn’t need shackles. Sansa already sat within a gilded cage, every inevitable turn of the wheels bringing her closer to the one who would… what had the note said? _Possess her._

The intimacy implied sent a shiver down Sansa’s spine. 

The journey to King’s Landing was a long one. If she didn’t occupy her mind somehow, she’d go mad. 

She eyed the lewd tomes. Madness or depravity. Lovely choices. 

_Seven hells,_ Sansa swore, feeling as if she’d literally tumbled into them. With King Petyr like a demon lord of each. 

She sat up straight at that idea, the framework that gave her a sort of path of what was to come. In desperation for some control and understanding of her fate, she clung to it.

Or maybe her mind had already begun to fray. 

Like a sewing pattern, thinking on what was happening as a descent into each of the hells provided something tangible to review, a guide to follow. Maybe even a battle plan.

Fixing Littlefinger in her mind as the demonic master of each wasn’t difficult at all. 

What had been his first move? _The first hell,_ as Sansa came to think of it. 

_Engagement?_ Yes. Their nightly trysts, all those years ago. 

Followed by his intricate contrivance to ensnare her in their rivalry. His _Machinations and games,_ she titled it. 

And the third hell, she considered, eyeing the barred windows despondently. 

_Capture._

Sansa liked the sense of empowerment it gave to categorize Littlefinger’s maneuverings along lines she could follow. She stared back out at the passing trees, deep in thought.

Four hells left to go. Her stomach flipped at the idea of what might await. 

Until now, Petyr’s games aimed at _intellectually_ toying with her. Invading the boundaries of her mind, eventually snaking his way in and mastering the privacy of her thoughts, until they were no longer her own, but belonged to him as well. 

Sansa looked at the erotic books and shivered again. She’d have to read them. They might contain a clue. 

What did Littlefinger’s drive to conquer mean for the rest of her, as she’d be _physically_ in his grasp soon? Her breathing sped at the thought before she caught herself.

Sansa straightened her spine, clenched her jaw. 

Not this time. She knew the warmongering monster for what he was now, he’d mistaken _her._

Sansa slid her fingernails beneath a section of metalwork along the carriage wall, a plan forming in her mind as she pried off one sharp piece, no bigger than her hand.

She was no longer the same girl he’d seduced back at Winterfell. She was a _Queen._

And she was going to kill a King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger has some Sherlock/Loki/Rhett Butler vibes I'm trying to tame, but I'm aware they're there. And Sansa has more agency than TV show Sansa, but, I thought it'd be fun to give her more of a fighting spirit I'd hope she'd achieve after years of warfare in close proximity, and a bit of Arya's influence.
> 
> A Caution for Young Girls is cannon, the other two books are creations for this fic.


	5. Master of the Realm

Without ever before having set foot in King’s Landing, Sansa could tell it had changed. Not just because of the people scurrying about with purpose and the frenzied building repair, but the _clothes._

Sansa, with her eye for gowns, noticed the change in attire from the tales she’d heard, and tapestries she’d seen, portraying life in King’s Landing during the long summer of Baratheon rule. 

Silks of dusty rose, satins of lilac. She still caught many flashes of these colors as women passed, but she saw just as much fabric in black, gray, and green -- and the colors emulating the king increased the nearer they drew to court. 

_His_ influence. 

Ten kingsguard escorted Sansa through the Red Keep, though her shaky legs made it hard to keep pace or take in much of her surroundings. 

She didn’t want to die. But it would be craven not to take the one chance she had to avenge her family. 

The metal shard lay close to her breast, hidden beneath her shift and smallclothes. She didn’t want it discovered like the dagger in her boot, back at Winterfell. 

Ascending yet another set of stairs, Sansa rehearsed the plan in her head, as she’d done repeatedly on the journey.

Littlefinger would say something cruel, and she’d reply, “What is it you want, King Petyr? For me to gravel at your feet? Beg for my freedom?” 

He’d sneer his agreement, telling her to bend the knee, to beg. Once on the ground, she’d withdrawal the metal from beneath her dress, rise, and in one quick movement, slash the bastard’s throat. 

It would be her last action in this world before his guards cut her down, but it was the right thing to do. 

Sansa readied herself to face Littlefinger on the Iron Throne… only to find the white cloaks cloaks led her up, into a bedchamber. Her room?

“His Grace is busy now, he will see to you later,” one of the guards replied, before closing and locking the door. 

Confused, Sansa turned to take stock of her surroundings. A table, two chairs, a bed with rich blue and gray bedding, and a table with a mirror for her to comb her hair. One window… that led nowhere she could easily escape. 

Sansa sat at the table, to wait. 

The angle of the sun moved, casting a longer shadow across the bed. 

Finally, a knock sounded on the door. 

Sansa rushed to it, but a guard only handed her a scroll before turning and leaving. 

_A direwolf._

Quickly, Sansa broke the seal and read:

 _I’ve been told this will reach you. If that holds true, know that Winterfell stands strong. Theon says he’s well, but has not yet been released from the Iron Islands. Walder Frey has died._

Sansa brought a hand to her heart. Reading Arya’s words, her resolve to sacrifice her life for duty faltered. But Walder Frey was _killed,_ Sansa knew. Now that he had her, Littlefinger was picking off her allies, murdering them one by one. Just like she suspected he killed her parents, and the Boltons. None of it could be a difficult feat for Petyr, except for the murder of Queen Daenerys, which _still_ perplexed her. 

Sansa sat back down at the table and time passed, marked by the dimming light. What game was Littlefinger playing? 

Eventually, a tray of food was brought to her, but she had no stomach. 

By dusk, Sansa caught on. Littlefinger would do this for days until he wore her down, until she stormed into the throne room demanding to see _him._

When a brown-haired maid arrived to help her undress, she didn’t protest. Sansa climbed into bed not long after the stars began to shine, one by one, outside her window. 

#

A knock came at her door, causing her to jump. She’d fallen asleep. 

“Yes?” Sansa called, bringing the bedsheet up to her neck. She wore only her shift. 

The kingsguard opened the door. 

“His Grace will see you now.” 

She struggled through her sleep haze to comprehend. 

“Now? I- give me a moment to dress and-”

“You’ll come now,” the guard replied, unmoving. “King’s orders.” 

Sansa understood. Littlefinger wouldn’t allow her to dress, or make any final moves before being given an audience. 

_Thank the gods I fell asleep with the metal still at my breast,_ she thought. _This is it._

Sansa lifted her chin and mustered all the dignity she could, escorted by kingsguard in only her shift, though the candlelit halls of the Red Keep. 

#

Before she even turned the corner, Sansa caught the scent of old, cold stone mixed with the fire, burning at the base of each massive pillar. Through the door, she noticed the image of trees climbing up the columns, with mockingbirds flying in or above the branches. 

With her heart in her throat, Sansa crossed the threshold of the great hall. 

And saw him. 

King Petyr’s legs fell, languid, relaxed, to either side of the throne, but his back was ramrod straight. And his _eyes._ That unfaltering gaze made Sansa feel like she wanted to turn and run. 

She swallowed, involuntarily, and followed the guards, fighting the urge to bolt. She would need to get _a lot_ closer for her plan to work. 

Littlefinger’s hair had further grayed around the temples, and slight creases touched the corners of his eyes where once were none. Sansa was sure he _looked_ older, and yet, he didn’t. She had grown since they’d last met, and her _perspective_ on age had changed more than he _actually_ aged. It gave her the disconcerting feeling of closing some of the gap between them. 

Dressed in fine black robes, thin silver crown upon his head, he was also more startingly handsome than she remembered. 

A handsome warmonger and _murderer,_ she reminded herself. 

Wobbly legs took her to the base of the stairs. Littlefinger’s throne sat upon the dais, just ahead. 

His eyes never left her. Had they always been so dark? Sansa couldn’t remember. Perhaps, as a silly young girl, she’d been more concerned with her own reflection in them than all the power they seemed to hold. Not just power… satisfaction? Anticipation? Littlefinger’s eyes conveyed a desire his face - a mask - did not. 

_Be brave,_ Sansa willed. 

“All hail His Grace, Petyr of House Baelish, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Master and Protector of the Realm.”

A nervous chuckle sounded in the back of Sansa’s throat. She did not kneel. Not yet. For a moment she forgot the severity of her mission, and, licking her lips, couldn’t resist asking the question.

“Master? Really?”

Leave it to him to change the very title of the king. 

“Seemed a logical progression from Master of Coin,” Littlefinger replied, just the hint of a smirk on one side. 

Gods, she’d forgotten how his raspy whisper served to pull someone in, how it exuded more authority than the boom of an angry man’s shout.

Sansa chewed the inside of her mouth, thinking. This was insane. They spoke as if not a day had passed since they last saw one another. They spoke as if they were not rivals locked in deadly warfare for the past five years. As if she wasn’t about to put a bloody end to his reign, his life. 

She could use this banter.

 _Keep him talking._

“It’s been some time since that was your role.” With a sideways glance, she took a few tentative steps forward. “Last _reliable_ news I heard, you were Hand of Queen Daenerys, then it gets murky. She names you heir, dies suddenly, and here we are.” 

“Here we are,” he agreed, raising his eyebrows. “And you, Queen as well. Tales of the defiant beauty ruling the wild lands of the North have inspired more than one tavern song I’ve heard men sing, as they hoist their cups.” 

Sansa frowned at the false flattery. Death would stop his deft - _no,_ she corrected herself – his _duplicitous_ tongue. His soft – no, _lying_ lips. Gods, why did she have to remember his hot mouth upon her own at a time like this?

She continued climbing the steps toward him. Littlefinger seemed to welcome it, and the guards saw no threat in a girl, barefoot and wearing only her shift. 

Refocusing, she asked, “and what could you _possibly_ have on Varys to persuade him to serve as your Hand?” 

Littlefinger flashed his self-satisfied grin, baring teeth as if he’d just tore into a juicy shoulder of meat he’d hunted and killed himself. 

“Absolutely nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.” 

Sansa was so close now, it was as if the two of them were having an intimate conversation, without a dozen guards at her back. She fought to steady her heart. 

“How about we try a new game,” Littlefinger whispered out of one side of his mouth, “where we swear never to lie, only to tell each other the truth?” 

“I don’t believe you, I _won’t_ believe you.”

“What could I have to gain by lying?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “What’s possibly left that’s not within my power?” 

_Me,_ Sansa wanted to say, but it would only lead him away from the script she needed him to follow. She was so close, she could almost reach out and touch his dark robes. She inhaled deeply through her nose, and swallowed. Then, just as rehearsed, she spoke the words to set her plan in motion. 

“Why have you brought me here? What is it you want, King Petyr? For me to gravel at your feet? Beg for the North, for my freedom?” 

“Quite the opposite,” he replied, eyes flashing. “Though the picture of you gravelling is an image I’ll save for… later use… I prefer you begging to be _taken,_ not released.”

At the intimate suggestion, Sansa let out a ridiculous, strangled sound somewhere between a cough and a gasp. 

Worse, panic seized her heart and she heard it’s beat in her ears because _he didn’t deliver the line._

_Yes, beg,_ he was supposed to say. As she’d rehearsed a thousand times in her head. 

Adrenaline coursed through her veins, her eyes wildly searched for _what to do?_ She faltered, then awkwardly carried on, like an actress who continues the play, even though her castmate has just flubbed the line prior. 

Only, the guards were not an audience with a collective will to suspend disbelief. 

And Littlefinger was not an idiot. 

But she was a rock tumbling down a hill, and, once put in motion she couldn’t stop.

Sansa threw herself at King Petyr’s feet, bringing her body even closer. She bent one knee, head down, and braced herself with her hands on the stone floor. 

“Does this please you? I submit to you as the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and beg of you to show me mercy.” At the words _me mercy,_ Sansa brought her hand to her breast. She tilted her head further, curtaining herself with her hair, then dipped her fingers into her shift, and slid the metal shard into her clammy palm. 

_Please_ , Sansa begged of the gods, not even sure what the please was for. Her heart felt like it would explode if it didn’t slow. 

“Rise,” Littlefinger commanded. She caught the suspicious tone in his voice, bemused at her actions, but nothing to indicate he’d seen her shimmy the weapon from her dress. 

Sansa drew another deep breath, closing her eyes. She thought of Arya. Of Theon. Jon and Bran. _I love you all._

She clutched the metal tighter, unsure if it cut her own hand. 

_You have one chance. Don’t fail._

She pushed to her feet, using the momentum to strike. Arching back, arm poised to slash Petyr’s throat, she brought it down with full force. 

One hand lashed out and caught her wrist, clamping down like iron.

Littlefinger’s severe grip was the only thing holding her up at that moment, her legs flailed to steady themselves, her feet scrambled to find balance on the floor. 

Petyr squeezed her wrist so hard she dropped the weapon to the ground. The world came crashing down with it. 

_She’d failed._

It felt like time slowed. Sansa didn’t look at Petyr, she closed her eyes and braced herself for the sword she was sure would pierce through her back at any moment. A split second after that she flinched against the air, imagining the back of Littlefinger’s hand striking her cheek. 

Several heartbeats passed. 

No blade impaled her back. No blow struck her face. 

The momentary relief Sansa felt at having her life spared was replaced with the deepest dread she’d ever known. 

_Not a quick death then._

Slowly, she opened her eyes. 

And gulped. 

Littlefinger smiled, but it did not touch his eyes. They burned with anger, and remained fixed on her, even as he spoke. 

“We’ve captured quite a she-wolf,” he said, louder than usual. “I can only hope she proves this feisty in the bedchamber.” Sansa heard the shuffle of feet as guards behind her shifted their weight, unsure what to do. 

“If only all the whores in King’s Landing had such spirit, the coffers would overflow.” Littlefinger declared, smile deepening. She heard a few nervous laughs behind her.

Sansa understood what he did, but she did not know _why._ Her attempted kingslaying was a story that could not be contained. Littlefinger was trying to take charge of how it was told. 

She saw the truth in his eyes, and it made her almost wish she’d been killed on the spot. 

Petyr reached out the arm that did not hold her and snapped at his guards. Two hurried forth, taking Sansa’s arms between them and marching her out of the great hall.

She couldn’t get enough air in her lungs, sure she was headed for the dungeons, for the rack or some other awful torture. 

All the while, her shoulders lifted and tensed, feeling the unrelenting weight of Littlefinger’s furious stare at her back. 

To her surprise, the white cloaks dragged her back inside her bedroom, causing only slightly less panic. 

She turned around slowly, dreading to face Littlefinger. 

“I think I can handle the girl, as recently proved.” Petyr dismissed his guards, annoyed. He turned his head only slightly over his shoulder so that he never took his eyes off Sansa.

Reluctantly, they backed away, leaving the two of them alone in her room together. 

_Please don’t go,_ Sansa thought, never before expecting to _want_ Littlefinger’s guards nearby.

“Close the door,” Petyr ordered, still focused on Sansa. 

At its slam, she jumped.

Taking note, one side of Petyr's mouth curled into a familiar smirk. 


	6. Both Twisted

Five long, horrible years of death and destruction, and she was once again alone in a room with Petyr Baelish. 

The familiar, grey-tinged beard. Black robes so long they nearly touched the floor, laced with silver thread around a high, stiff-backed collar. His pose, formal, yet one he often relaxed into -- two hands clasped one another in front, near his waist. 

The silver crown, glinting as it caught the firelight, was new. 

The air shifted, Sansa swore it was palpable. Without directing her energy into a desire to kill Littlefinger, it was as if it the desire redirected… elsewhere. The rest of the world grew fuzzy around her periphery and she felt locked, wrapped in a line of vision that included only his dark, lean form before her. She’d say she felt like a horse with blinders – Littlefinger a groomsman leading her down some unknown path - but for the sensation that, as he returned her stare, she felt he was likewise pulled, locked in that same strange tunneling to see only her. 

“That was quite a disappointing performance,” he said, eyebrows raised in assessment. 

Sansa blinked, the jarring statement clearing her mind. At least he didn’t announce her death sentence. 

His words stung her pride. Did that mean some twisted part of her wanted to have impressed Littlefinger, her victim, with the successful execution of his own murder?

The perverse, contradictory idea made her head spin. What did that say about her? About them? 

Self-reflection disappeared from her mind completely with his next words. 

“Remove your shift.” 

Sansa froze. 

“If you insist on hiding weapons within your clothing, you will not be permitted to wear any.” 

Sansa only stared, trying and failing to keep her eyes from widening in a show of terror. 

Petyr took a step forward. 

“Remove all your clothing. Now.” 

She tried, but she couldn’t make her hands do the work. 

“We can do this alone, or I can call the guards in to watch,” Littlefinger declared. 

Nervous fingers hurried to obey, scrunching up the bottom of her shift and pulling it up and over her head. 

At Littlefinger’s impatient look, she closed her eyes and discarded her smallclothes into a pile on the floor as well. 

Sansa wasn’t sure how much of a look Petyr got, before she bolted behind one of the high-backed chairs, covering her breasts with her arms, though the wood did the same. 

_Satisfied?_ Her face said, and she tried to inflect it with sarcasm to deflect the vulnerability she felt at that moment. Was he going to rape her, beat her, kill her? A chair wouldn’t stop him. 

Naked with Littlefinger, a tingle spread throughout Sansa’s body she hoped was solely due to trepidation. 

Petyr’s jaw clenched. 

“I should publicly flog you.” 

“Why don’t you?” she asked, almost goading, anxious to know her fate. 

“Oh, trust me, it’s tempting,” he whispered. “But I prefer to punish you in private.” 

Sansa could not mistake the way he relished the threat. She forced her racing mind _stop_ imagining all the torments he could inflict. 

Littlefinger tilted his head. “You attempted kingslaying, Lady Sansa. Do you hate me so much? I thought you’ve enjoyed our games. You’ve always been keen to play.” 

He continued, “I’ll be drinking with those guards all night to reconstrue the story in my favor. In _your_ favor.” 

“And why would you do me any favors at all? Why don’t you just kill me and be done with it? Or is your plan to torture me before you put my head on a spike?" Sansa’s spine straightened as she declared, “If I die, let it happen now, while there’s still some of me left.” 

“You won’t die,” Littlefinger replied, eyes boring into hers. He crossed the distance between them and put his hand between her neck and her shoulder, nearly growling the words, “but there will be none of you left when I’m through. None of you I haven’t taken.” 

Sansa quickly drew one shaky breath, and, gods help her, something inside her fluttered in a not entirely unpleasant way. 

_Murderer,_ she reminded herself, but had trouble holding onto the thought. 

Petyr’s grip was too rough to be called a caress, giving Sansa the notion he restrained himself from strangling her after what she’d done. But he didn’t press enough to hurt, either. 

All that stood between him and her naked body was a wooden chair. Absurdly, she remembered that the last time she’d been able to do anything close to resembling bathing had been a tavern stop days ago. Part of her screamed to pull away, but a deep, primal part ached to lean her neck _into_ his hand, to give herself over to his elegant fingers. The disparate desires mercifully had the result of cancelling one another out, so that she stood frozen, as if his hand had no effect upon her at all. 

Unfortunately, both ideas set her pulse racing, caused her to breathing to hitch. Whether he thought it was from excitement or fear, she knew it wouldn’t escape Littlefinger’s notice. 

He dropped his arm suddenly, and Sansa exhaled in relief, even as that secret part of her missed the warmth. Littlefinger backed away, putting several feet between them. 

_What were they talking about again?_ Sansa tried to clear her head. 

_Oh yes. Kingslaying. Murder._

“You killed my parents,” Sansa said, voice weak, but growing stronger. “It’s my duty to avenge them.” 

Littlefinger titled his head. “You wound me.”

“Why? Because I believe you’re capable of murdering my family to get what you want?”

“Because you believe I’d need to.”

Sansa opened her mouth to speak. Closed it. She narrowed her eyes. Could there be any truth to that? 

“Then what happened? I know it wasn’t random, the course of war. Tell me.” 

“That’s a story for another day, sweetling,” he replied. “And if you want to live to see it, you’re going to have to do as I say.” 

“Why, because you’re king? What’s makes _you_ entitled to be king? What was it you said once… in King’s Landing, there are two sorts of people, players and pieces? So you were simply born to rule and others, to serve? Is that it - rule or be ruled?” 

“One can do both.” 

Sansa frowned, not understanding. 

“One can rule _and_ serve,” Petyr took a step forward again, invading her personal space with uncomfortable ease. “To rule over all others… and _be ruled by_ her king.” 

His eyes flashed as he finished, and her body certainly did not mistake the deeper meaning in his words, as it gave an involuntary shiver. 

“You’re still a terrible lair. I should have brought you to King’s Landing sooner,” he declared. Petyr gave a slight shake of his head. “And for so long I had thought the reverse.”

Sansa bristled at his idea that she could be moved like a pawn, at least by him, as well as the insult. 

“A rare mistake. I had it backwards, you see,” he said, though the tone of his confession bore no hint of modesty the words implied. Instead, he advanced with evident threat.

“I thought I would need to claim you in order to take the Iron Throne." 

One heavily-ringed hand grasped and lifted Sansa's chin. "When all along, I needed to take the Iron Throne in order to claim you.” 

Sansa blinked. She wasn’t hearing correctly. 

_Did he mean…_

Tearing her chin from his grip, she laughed, though it came out much more nervous than haughty, as she’d intended. 

“Are you… proposing an alliance? Why?” she asked, dumbfounded. “So I can make an heir to the North for you, and then you can kill me?” 

“I’m not the one who’s bent on regicide,” Littlefinger pointed out. 

Sansa raised one shoulder in a carefree shrug. She hoped her indifferent attitude about murdering him got under his skin. He certainly had an untroubled mindset about kidnapping her. 

“Why would you want someone who tried to kill you as your… _Queen?”_ Sansa had to force herself to say the word. 

Littlefinger let out one low, breathy laugh, almost to himself. Sansa couldn’t decipher it’s meaning. 

“I thought my attempt _disappointed_ you.”

“More in your execution than your intent. Neither of us is particularly adept at hand-to-hand combat. That’s not our way.” 

_Our_ way? 

Sansa didn’t know what to say to that.

“I tried to _kill_ you,” she simply repeated, brows knit. “We hate each other.” 

Littlefinger only smirked, and Sansa knew exactly what it meant. 

_We didn’t always._

Or… was it something darker? Was it, _I don’t need your favor to take what I want?_

“Only you would propose a marriage to a lady standing naked before you.” She meant it as an insult, but Littlefinger’s smile deepened. 

“I imagine many more lords would do so, if only they could.” 

Sansa grit her teeth, then forced her voice to soften. 

“What about the North?” she asked, hating to show her hand, but knowing it wasn’t much of a reveal - the importance of her people were pretty much already cards on the table. 

“We’ll discuss terms over dinner. _If_ the story of what happened tonight goes as planned.” 

“And if not? Public flogging and my head on a spike?”

“Likely,” Littlefinger replied, seemingly untroubled. “Or, dinner, an alliance… and a more personal punishment is in order.” 

Sansa narrowed her eyes at Petyr to cover the wild butterflies that took flight in her stomach at the implication. 

“Until then, you’ll remain here, and, sweetling, I’m afraid we’ll have to remove anything you can use to hide a weapon. If I feel I can trust you again, I’ll provide clothing prior to our negotiation.” 

He then spoke to Sansa like a parent chastising a child. “Another foolish move like the one you made tonight, and you’ll be stripped whenever in my presence.” 

Littlefinger spun on his heel and left Sansa staring after him, dazed. The turn of events was too big to take in at once, and she stood, unmoving. 

Moments later, the brown-haired maid returned to her room, and Sansa abruptly closed her mouth, only just realizing she’d been gaping since Littlefinger left. The handmaiden stripped all the bedding and pulled the curtains from the wall. Before leaving, she paused to scoop from the floor the last of Sansa’s garments. 

Hearing the pop of wood in the hearth reminded Sansa to be grateful at least the fire would keep her warm. She couldn’t even _entirely_ blame Petyr, some of this was a hell of her own making. 

Sansa sat on the bed, now as bare as she, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her head upon them. A prisoner, naked, was never how she imaged receiving a request for her hand in marriage. Especially not after having tried to kill the man striking the alliance. 

_But when it came to Littlefinger,_ she thought, _she shouldn’t even be surprised._

The surprise was in him proposing such an alliance to her in the first place. 

And more, that she was considering it. 

But King Petyr had cornered her in such a way that she didn’t have much of a choice. He held Theon prisoner. He held her own life in the balance. And most importantly, his army garrisoned in the Iron Islands and Torrhen’s Square, ready to attack Winterfell and take the North if she didn’t comply. 

He manipulated events so that she would be his prisoner, or she would be his Queen. 

Although, with Littlefinger... there wasn't likely much of a difference.


	7. Upping the Ante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a mention of rape here, but it is minor/play-acting/mention only. 
> 
> *However, this is the last chapter before things turn kinky. 
> 
> **Please, please do not read past this chapter if non-consensual acts of s&m or force is a trigger. 
> 
> Also, luck/unlikely coincidence in meetings play a frequent and heavy hand in the show, so I let it play a minor role here.

Two days and two nights passed, Sansa still locked in her room. Meals were brought, along with the scandalous books from the carriage, to keep her fed and entertained. 

On the third day, a tall, redheaded woman entered her chambers carrying a tray of raspberries and a pale pink gown.

Sansa snapped to attention, eyes darting left and right in a manner she immediately wished she’d better concealed. 

When the door slammed shut, the woman smiled at Sansa. 

“It’s alright,” she said, in a low voice. “This room isn’t watched. We can talk here.” 

A smile broke out across Sansa’s face. She wanted to hug Ros, but was reluctant to move from her perch on the bed, concealing her body with her hands and hair.

“Put this on,” Ros said, tossing her a plain pink gown. 

Sansa gratefully shimmied into the dress, then brought Ros to her in an embrace the other redhead gently returned. 

“Have the others left?” Sansa whispered, as they sat together on the edge of the bed. 

“All but me,” Ros replied. 

Sansa nodded, taking in the good news. It had always been the plan that, should anything happen to her, her spies flee King’s Landing, for safety. Especially the ladies working the brothels. Sansa had received plenty of information from her network over the past year, but no one had gotten as close to Petyr as Ros, so it was Ros on whom she was most reliant. 

“You’re in more danger than ever,” Sansa cautioned. “Are you sure you want to stay?”

Ros replied thoughtfully, “It’s a risk, but, I like my work. And if I don’t help you, who else will?” She tucked a stray piece of Sansa’s hair behind her ear. 

Sansa gave a small smile. “I’m not a little girl any more. But, thank you. Please keep for yourself whatever coin remains from the chest.” 

The chest Littlefinger had sent, full of silver moons, had been put to the most _satisfying_ purpose against him, by paying spies to infiltrate his ranks.

Ros shrugged. “I don’t need it. If you don’t mind, I’d rather give it to some of the less careful girls, who’ve recently found themselves with bastards to raise.” 

Sansa paused. She pursed her lips. “Does he pay you so well?”

The unspoken question, _does he pay you so well you are no longer loyal to me?_

Ros flashed one of her alluring grins, smoothing Sansa’s hair once more. As always, quick to understand, she replied, “He does. But not well enough to forget my loyalties. There is no price for that.” 

Sansa’s blue eyes studied the woman, her last remaining spy. She seemed to be telling the truth. 

Steadying her voice to hide any trepidation, Sansa asked, “Has King Petyr quelled the demand to behead me?”

“Oh, he’s done more than that,” Ros replied, eyes twinkling mischievously in a manner not unlike Littlefinger’s. “He’s incited a desire to bed you.” 

Sansa scrunched up her face. “How… has he done that?”

“Placed redheaded girls dressed in Stark colors and crowns throughout the brothels. The whore attacks the lord, they fight, then he overpowers and rapes her. Charges double. We’ve made more the past two days than we have in a fortnight.” 

“That’s barbaric,” Sansa spat. 

“That’s business,” Ros shrugged, popping one of the raspberries into her mouth. 

_By the gods,_ Sansa cursed, huffing through her nose. Leave it to Littlefinger to not only somehow come out on top, but to _profit_ from his attempted assassination. 

“So I’ve become a spectacle, a lewd jape to the people of King’s Landing?” Sansa asked. 

Ros shook her head. “Not all. Not even most. Just the ones Littlefinger needed, were subtly nudged in the direction of his brothels. In fact, there are some who talk of your bravery, your beauty, and believe you have a just cause. Northern sympathizers, they’re called.” 

Sansa didn’t believe the flattery. She changed the subject. 

“I thought it was unseemly for a King to own brothels?” she asked. 

“That’s why they’re mine. On paper. Of course, it’s not unseemly for the crown to collect taxes from those establishments.”

“So in reality, Littlefinger gets paid twice,” Sansa said, frowning. Deals like this didn’t surprise her. He was clever with coin, after all. But it nagged Sansa _how_ good. He never seemed to run out of funding for any endeavor. 

Gently taking the bowl of raspberries from Ros’s hands, Sansa crossed over to the table and placed them there. She took a seat comfortably, clothed, for the first time in days.

“Ros,” Sansa began tentatively. “You’ve gotten very close to Petyr.” She chewed the inside of her lip. “Do you know why he wants to marry me? I tried to kill him after all.”

Ros gave a breathy chuckle. “I’d say even attempted murder does not affect King Petyr’s ego. It’s as big as his fortune. I wouldn’t be surprised if it flattered him. Or challenged him.” Ros titled her head, studying Sansa. “A King needs a Queen after all, and, if you don’t mind me saying, he’s always seemed very… distracted by you. What if there wasn’t an ulterior motive? What if _you_ were the motive?” 

Sansa rubbed her fingers together, in thought. Ros had seen things she could never imagine. The secret desires of men, laid bare in her brothels. And she was closer to Littlefinger than most others could hope. 

But Littlefinger wasn’t a man without hidden motive. 

“So what happens now?” Sansa asked. 

“Your maid will return tonight with appropriate attire,” Ros said. “You’re having dinner with the King.” 

#

There was nothing appropriate about the attire the maid brought, late that afternoon. 

The gray gown plunged in a deep V down the back, nearly to a lady’s bottom. The neckline, down to the point of the plunge, was trimmed in a thick band of black satin, drawing even more attention to the cut. 

Northern ladies did not wear such dresses. Much like his provided reading material, Littlefinger clearly wanted her to be uncomfortable for their negotiations. 

Sansa ran her fingers over the gown. She had to admire the luxurious fabric... 

She had a flash of inspiration, lips curling into a one-sided grin. 

“Leave me,” Sansa told her maid. “I can prepare for dinner myself.” 

The maid hesitated, then considered Sansa’s sharp tone, curtsying and departing. 

_Let’s see which of us feels more unnerved,_ Sansa thought, as she turned the dress around. 

#

It fit. Maybe too well. Sansa forced her posture straighter. If she entered the room timidly, it would wreck any good she hoped to do. She raised her chin. 

The dress, having been flipped backwards, now plunged to nearly to her belly button. A wide expanse of Sansa’s pale skin, including the inner curve of her breasts, sat exposed to the air, to the gaze of… anyone who would look upon her. She’d swept and braided her hair up and away. It wasn’t the most well-styled plait she’d ever had, but good enough to last the night. 

One final time she squared her shoulders, ignored the speeding beat of her heart, then entered the room King Petyr set aside for small feasts. 

Littlefinger stood next to his chair, one hand resting on the high back, the other bent close to his waist. He wore dark gray robes with silver buckles down the front from the tight neck to his waist. The silver crown rested upon his head like it was always meant to be there. 

Sansa saw his eyes slightly widen, then darken, as he took in her dress. She had to cover her smug smile as one of pleasant greeting. 

“Your Grace,” Sansa said, trying and failing to keep the victory out of her voice as she watched Petyr work his jaw to the side as a sort of readjustment. 

She expected him to call attention to her misuse of the gown, how she’d worn it in reverse. She’d then demure with a giggle - however false they both knew it to be - confessing what a silly Northern girl she was, so out of touch with fashions in the capitol. 

But once again, he surprised her. 

Littlefinger reached out his arm, indicating she should sit, as he said, “I’m pleased you’ve chosen to demonstrate your compliance to not hide any daggers at your breast this evening.” 

Sansa frowned, failing to think up a retort. If she said, _“there’s still my skirts,”_ he’d only reply with some suggestive comment about removing them. 

She simply sat, forcing her face to relax as Petyr beckoned a tall, blonde servant boy over to his side. The boy leaned down and Petyr whispered something in his ear. As he rose, the servant’s eyes flicked over to Sansa, a slight smile on his lips, before turning on his heel and quickly taking leave. 

Covering her discomfort, Sansa reached for the wine that had been set before them, and took a deep sip. 

“Shall we discuss terms?” Littlefinger asked, also taking a sip of the wine. 

Sansa fixed him with her best ice stare. “Truth before terms.” 

Littlefinger crooked an eyebrow. 

“If I’m to… marry you… I need to trust you.” Sansa thought better on the idea of ever _trusting_ Littlefinger and said instead, “I need to _know_ some things.” 

“What is it you want to know?” Littlefinger asked, resting his goblet back on the table and waving his hand in a manner that said, _ask away._ But the gesture was high and haughty, bequeathing permission, and Sansa found herself distracted by the movement of his long fingers. 

It was a terrible time to remember how they felt curling inside her. 

Servants placed bowls of almonds before them, distracting her, but Sansa hadn’t the stomach yet. She took another long sip of wine. 

Sansa licked her lips as she finished, hesitating with the questions closest to her heart – did Petyr really know what happened to her parents, and how did he manage to kill Daenerys?

Before she dove deeper, she needed to take further measure of the man. She would start slow, build up. 

“I-” Sansa began, then stopped, as the blonde-haired servant returned. Trailing behind him were half a dozen men and women who, by their clothing, could not be mistaken to be anything but employees of a brothel. 

“The entertainment,” Littlefinger explained, a pleased smile at his lips. “I keep a number of performers nearby, for noblemen who like a little revelry during meetings such as this.” 

Sansa pursed her lips to keep her mouth from gaping at his thinly veiled retaliation to her trick with the dress. Someone took up a lute as couples paired off and began dancing provocatively about the room. 

She locked her eyes on Petyr, refusing to be sidetracked. 

“Tell me how you converted Varys to your side,” she asked, and took another sip of wine to steady her nerves. 

“The challenge lay less in the converting, more in the keeping. He’s quite fickle, actually.” 

“Varys would never support you,” Sansa declared. 

“Ah, yes, what did he tell you? That I would see this country burn if I could be king of the ashes? Well, sweetling, it did burn, and ash fell. His worst fears came to pass, and by a queen of his own making. There was nothing left to do but rebuild, and who’s better at building a successful business?”

“The realm is not a brothel.”

“No. But the same principles apply.” 

“And how is that?”

“Both run on fantasies. Fantasies whores peddle that men are all too happy to convince themselves are true, or fantasies king and council peddle, that men are all to happy to convince themselves are true.” 

A moan caught Sansa’s attention and she couldn’t help the slight widening of her eyes as she flicked her gaze to the side and caught the entertainment discarding more and more of the little clothing they wore. 

_Ignore them,_ she commanded herself. _He does this to rile you._

“And what fantasy is that?” Sansa asked, feeling the heat creep up her neck anyway. 

“Oh, many. That a king deserves a man’s sword, his life, his allegiance in the first place.” 

“Men aren’t happy to live that fantasy.”

“Aren’t they? How many go North of the wall? Or East, for that matter?” 

Sansa wanted to argue – people had ties to the land after all - but the nearby gasps grew louder and even before she looked, Sansa knew the “performers” had begun engaging in more erotic acts. She immediately regretted the dress, sure it revealed her flush from chest to forehead, sure it emphasized the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as her breathing sped. 

All the while, Littlefinger watched her less like a Mockingbird and more like a bird of prey. 

_Don’t let him distract you,_ she chided herself. Focusing back on her questions, she could tell there was a grain of truth to Littlefinger’s words about Varys, but also something deeper he obscured. 

Sansa took yet another large gulp of wine. 

“What about the Iron Islands?” she asked. “How was it you were conveniently positioned there? You _couldn’t_ have known Theon was alive. That he’d returned to Winterfell and planned to reclaim his birthright. He was barely recognizable, the healers didn’t even know his identity.”

Petyr smirked. “Who do you think paid for the healing and saw to his valiant escort home?” 

“You couldn’t have…” Sansa whispered, almost to herself. 

_But he could._ Suddenly, the entertainment fell away and Sansa’s mind travelled back to Storm’s End. Petyr would have subjects loyal to the crown there, it would only have been a matter of sending a raven after learning of their victory. Although he’d have been _lucky_ to find Theon amongst the wreckage. But, if he had, she could easily imagine Littlefinger knowing just how to seize upon such an opportunity and leverage it into an even greater advantage. 

Sansa’s thoughts raced now. Had it all been a set up? 

_Knowing_ Theon would return to Winterfell, and _knowing_ Sansa would use him to secure the Iron Fleet. 

Why let Theon go at all, why not just capture him then? To lull her into a false sense of security? But before Sansa was able to follow that line of questioning, another unsettling thought occurred to her. 

Under the table, Sansa fisted her dress. 

Ignoring the panting performers around her, she asked through gritted teeth, “Did we even meet by chance back in Winterfell?” 

Before Littlefinger replied, she already knew. She shook her head, suddenly convinced and furious. 

“How? Did you put some potion in my drink to keep me awake that evening?”

“I considered it,” Petyr admitted with unnerving ease. “But no. You could say we met by chance. At least, there was an _element_ of it. I took an educated guess. A young, excitable girl who finds out that a man has come to ask her hand in marriage could hardly be expected to rest well that evening. And I found out her favored spots within the castle… as well as her closest companions.” 

Sansa’s eyes briefly fluttered shut as she finally _knew._ It felt like the walls of a great castle rose up around her, suddenly revealing themselves and banishing the illusion that she’d ever been free, that she ever had a path other than this one. Not once Lord Baelish had made up his mind. 

Right back to the beginning. 

“Jeyne Poole. You made sure she found out why you really came to Winterfell. You knew she’d tell me.” 

Petyr, smug as sin, tipped his glass at her, reminiscent of their very first interaction that evening, after Jenye whispered the words in her ear. 

_“Secretly, he’s here to ask for your hand in marriage.”_

_Gods,_ he had known what her friend whispered _even at that moment._ Under the table, Sansa’s nails dug into her palms. Her blood boiled. It threatened to spill over, into her mouth as a scream. 

She wouldn’t allow it, only stared blue ice daggers across the table. 

To his left, one of the dark-haired dancers _accidentally_ fell into King Petyr’s lap, breathless and laughing and completely naked. 

Sansa grit her teeth even harder as the woman giggled up at her King, apologizing by running her fingers through his hair and planting a kiss on his lips – how deeply Sansa couldn’t tell from that angle. 

She hated the inappropriate way the woman ruffled Petyr’s hair, as if she had any right. It was not because Sansa’s fingers ached to tousle his hair that way, it was only because it was _offensive._ _By the Seven,_ they were here discussing their marriage – hers and Petyr’s.

Littlefinger patted the woman’s thigh as she quickly hopped off his lap, and Sansa almost thought it was to hurry her along, but at the same time he gazed up wickedly at the raven-haired beauty as she left. 

He turned to back to Sansa with a careless grin and a shrug.

Sansa’s rage needed a direction, a release. 

She rose, slightly unsteady after a bit too much wine on an empty stomach. 

It might have been because she was _so_ tired of acting according to Littlefinger’s predictions, of him knowing _everything_ she was about to do next, that her body _shook_ with the desire to do something unexpected, an act all her own. 

She squared her shoulders, sidled over to the nearest male performer. The strapping one, with the large… arms. 

It might also have been the copious amount of wine. 

Sansa lifted one hand, grasping the man’s cheek and turning his head away from his companion and into her direction. 

It certainly wasn’t because she was jealous of the lady wiggling in Petyr’s lap. 

As if to say, _you can’t control me, I’m free,_ Sansa drew the entertainer’s lips to hers and kissed him deeply. 

She could feel the poor man’s inner struggle in his tense mouth -- wanting to kiss the young Queen-in-the-North, but surely not wanting to anger the King. 

Slowly, Sansa broke away first. With one finger, she wiped her lips in the most seductive manner she could before turning to give King Petyr a look of satisfaction. 

Her stomach dropped. She expected a _King Petyr is not amused_ type of look. Maybe something to indicate he planned to raise the stakes once more in return. 

Instead, his carefully masked face revealed something far, far more menacing to her. It said, _game over._

Even through the haze of too much wine, Sansa’s stomach felt like it filled with cold water, because she was sure he would not allow the game to end on her terms.

Which meant Petyr had plans… 

“My lady tires,” he spoke evenly, slowly, beckoning the guards on the far side of the room. “See her to her chambers. I will join her shortly.”


	8. I Did Warn You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Non-consensual s&m, spanking, force, dominance and submission begin in this chapter and continue throughout. 
> 
> Please do not read further if this is offensive or triggering. This is not a healthy practice for real life or activities that are condoned in the real world. It's just fiction. Please do not read this chapter or continue on if these topics are upsetting.

Briefly, Sansa considered fleeing out the window, the likely fall to her doom being the lesser of two evils. 

Why had she acted so rashly?

As she paced, each echo of footsteps outside her door made her freeze and wait, dreading the coming scrape of metal as the door handle inevitably pulled, bringing him into her chambers. Alone and angry. 

_Wasn’t it enough to try to kill Littlefinger? What in the world had made her push again, after she’d only today been granted clemency?_

He just got under her skin in the most infuriating manner, like an itch buried too deep to be scratched. 

And anyway, so what if she kissed the performer? She didn’t belong to Littlefinger, she hadn’t agreed to the marriage yet. 

Fear sobered her more each passing second. 

_Why had she ever come here?_ She should have stayed at Winterfell. 

Safe. From him. 

Finally, footsteps sounded… and stopped outside her door. Sansa turned, holding her breath. The door handle moved, the door swung open. 

King Petyr Baelish crossed the threshold into her chambers, closing the door behind him with an ominous thud.

“That was quite an interesting performance,” he said -- an echo of his earlier comment about her attempted assassination as a “disappointing performance.” 

Confronted with his condescending attitude, Sansa could _not_ stop herself. She was not the young girl he seduced back at Winterfell and she was not his to command, as wife. Not yet. 

“I found it a rather _pleasurable_ one. Didn’t you, Your Grace?” 

_That was too bold. By the gods, what was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she hold her tongue?_

He made her so angry coming into her room – no! Kidnapping her in the first place – no! Manipulating her, _then_ kidnapping, _then_ locking her in a room and giving her orders like she belonged to him. 

Petyr brought his hand to his mouth and ran his lower lip between his forefinger and thumb, considering her. 

He moved forward and Sansa stiffened, but he only walked toward her dressing table. He picked up her wooden hairbrush. 

Sansa knit her brows, wary. He clearly wasn’t going to brush her hair, but Littlefinger never struck her as some brute who would bash her head or beat her bloody like she’d heard King Joffrey liked to do to women. 

“Come here,” Petyr ordered, as he sat on one of the high-backed chairs. He placed the hairbrush on the table. 

Sansa studied Petyr’s eyes, trying to discern his meaning. Sometimes they seemed green. The color of the grass, the forests, the moss. Tender, playful, nurturing. Other times they shone gray. The color of the unforgiving rocks by the sea, or high up the mountains. Jagged, harsh, cruel. 

Many times they were both. Many times, like now, they concealed. 

Sansa didn’t move. 

“I can assure you, it will be worse for you if you disobey me.” 

The word, _disobey,_ sent an odd sensation through her chest. 

Sansa looked over her shoulder, as if some escape she’d missed might lay hidden at her back. Turning and pursing her lips, she slowly crossed the room and stood by Petyr. 

He immediately reached out two hands and grasped her hips, causing her to give a startled gasp. To her confusion, he shuffled her to his side. 

And then, he firmly tipped her forward, over his lap. One pull to readjust, and her hips were squared over his. On one side, her palms and the ends of her long red hair touched the floor. On the other, her feet suspended in the air just above. 

Sansa began to understand, but her brain fought it. This _couldn’t_ be what she thought. 

She felt to the cool air on her legs as Littlefinger raised her gown, confirming her fears. 

Her body understood before her mind fully accepted it, and struggled to right itself, off his lap. 

“Let me up,” she said. But Littlefinger pushed down on her back, holding her in place with one hand, while the other continued to lift her dress. 

Sansa pinked to her ears. She hadn’t worn a shift or small clothes, as the cut of the gown hadn’t allowed it, and she hadn’t been given anything more than the gray dress anyway.

“Let me up,” she repeated, pushing again only to meet the firm press of Petyr’s hand.

Gradually, he revealed her long legs, and then, the pale curve of her bottom. 

“Stop,” Sansa demanded harshly, to cover the mortification coursing through her with her bare backside exposed to Petyr’s gaze. 

“I’m going to spank you,” Littlefinger whispered, matter-of-factly, and Sansa felt her whole face burn. 

No one had ever done so before. Her father hadn’t believed in it. Littlefinger continued, his casual tone a stark contrast to the unbearable embarrassment his words caused.

“Going forward, I’m going to spank you whenever I feel you need it. I’m going to spank you as long and hard as I feel you need it.” 

Every inch of Sansa screamed to thrash, to struggle, but the small part of her mind that clung to rationality told her she’d only make a fool of herself, and probably give Petyr more of a show. She fought instead to find some dignity in her position, but couldn’t figure out _how_ to maintain it, other than with stubborn silence. 

“You can disobey me-” (Gods, that _word_ again, she thought) “and earn yourself a worse punishment. Or, you can do as you’re told, without argument. The choice is always yours, my lady. I’ll have your submission, either way, in the end.” 

With those words, Littlefinger brought his hand down on Sansa’s unprotected bottom and smacked hard enough for her breath to catch. 

He didn’t stop there, and the sting brought her to the full reality that this _was_ happening, that Littlefinger _would_ spank her and he _wouldn’t_ stop until he felt like she’d had enough. 

Her humiliation could not have been greater. Not only did Petyr’s hands freely touch such an intimate part of her – an erotic sensation – but at the same time, it was in a manner of handling her like his wayward daughter, with parental discipline. Sansa struggled to reconcile those two seemingly contradictory ideas, but the more Littlefinger continued to spank her, the more she lost herself in the feeling, and the more those concepts seemed to want to merge, to bond together into something she wasn’t sure she could handle. 

Silence her only weapon, Sansa clamped her lips shut, refusing to cry out even as the heat grew in her backside. She had worried about being tortured to death when coming to the capitol. She could handle a child’s punishment with no more than bruised pride. 

Her eyes may have gotten a bit watery, and she let out an _oomph_ every now and then, but by the time Petyr stopped, Sansa succeeded. Catching her breath, she even congratulated herself. 

“Now that we’ve warmed you up,” Petyr began. To Sansa’s horror, she felt the cool wood of the hairbrush tap her bottom – she’d forgotten about it completely - “we can begin your punishment.” 

_Had she heard correctly?_

Sansa cried out with the first smack of the brush. 

It _hurt._ A lot more than Petyr’s hand. 

“Wait,” she protested, but Petyr raised his arm and brought it down again. _Smack._

Panic began to bubble up in Sansa. 

“Stop, no.” Her legs kicked, drumming the stone floor below. 

A third smack, right at the crease of her thighs, and Sansa yelped. Petyr smacked her again, this time at the same low spot on her other check, and Sansa couldn’t stop the small scream. 

She lost count after that, Petyr wielding the hairbrush without mercy. Every two seconds another punishing _smack_ hit her bottom until every inch of his target felt like it was aflame. The worst was when Petyr concentrated low, in the area where her bottom met her legs. He’d sometimes smack two, three times in a row in the same spot, causing Sansa to cry out without regard to any guards who listened outside the door. She no longer cared what anyone thought, she no longer cared about anything but when Petyr would stop. 

Sansa didn’t know how long she suffered when she broke, only that there was a moment she could no longer hold back her tears, no longer wiggled under Petyr’s hand in a vain attempt to avoid her punishment or lessen the sting. 

She surrendered to Petyr what he demanded. It became a one-way conversation; she no longer fought to have any say. Sansa simply _accepted_ his will, fully submitting to the punishment Littlefinger doled out. 

There was a perverse release in it. So long she’d fought, so many years she played these games with him, there was something freeing in the comfort of just letting go. Even if it was to his control. 

In that moment, Sansa shattered like a glass dropped onto the floor. Tears fell, her legs stopped kicking, her arms stilled in her attempt to free herself. 

He broke her will to defy him. 

_It’s another level,_ Sansa thought, unwilling to relinquish her ability to reason, at least. Seizing upon that structure she could map out, she remembered her idea from the carriage, the seven hells. 

Engagement. Games and Machinations. Capture. 

Lying like a child over his knees, she dubbed her compliant state, her broken will, _the fourth hell._

Submission. 

They hit a turning point, crossed a line now, where things would be different. She’d yield, or he’d punish her. Any games they played would be because he allowed it.

 _Although,_ the bitter image of those soaring castle walls came back to her, _was it ever any different?_

Petyr laid down the hairbrush, and Sansa dimly realized it was over. She didn’t even try to rise, she thought of nothing more than catching her breath and soothing the gods-awful pain in her rear. 

Unexpectedly, Littlefinger laid one cool hand on the fullness of her right cheek. Sansa stiffened and sucked in her breath. 

Slowly, lightly, he ran his hand up and down one side of her bottom, sending Sansa’s thoughts into disarray and her heart racing again after having only a moment’s pause. She liked the coolness of his hand against her burning skin. _That was all, right?_

After a minute, he switched to the other side, and Sansa could feel his hand had grown warm, having absorbed some of her heat. But she didn’t enjoy the sensation any less. 

Minutes ago she’d been furious. At him, at herself. Now, she only felt… confused. Spent. _Malleable._ There was an authoritative feel of almost paternal control Petyr applied, and at the same time, there was nothing familial about the power he wielded… or the effect it had on her. 

Ned had never raised a hand to his daughters, certainly not to lift their gowns and spank them. Sansa didn’t know how much it could hurt… and how it made her utterly pliable to acquiesce to any demand Petyr might lay forth at the moment. 

The pain began to ebb and something else to flow, something not unpleasant. A feeling of comfort as Petyr caressed her bare skin, almost making her want to seek it, to… arch up into his hand? 

With every passing second, Sansa’s pain dulled and her – oh, gods – arousal grew? 

She pressed her legs back together, suddenly aware that they had parted, as if in invitation, as if hoping Petyr’s hands might dip deeper, lower into her secret places. Her _wet_ places, she corrected, mortified, feeling the spread her own desire had made past her slit and up between her cheeks. 

Quickly, Sansa pushed herself off the floor and tried to stand, but Littlefinger grabbed her waist and pulled her into his sitting position on top of him. 

Oh gods. _Oh gods._

In his lap, up against his chest, his face inches from her own. 

She hadn’t been this close to him since five years ago. 

Littlefinger’s eyes seemed both to _dare_ her to defy him (she wouldn’t, not with the sting still in her bottom) as well as burn with a desire for her to give him any excuse, any cause to touch her again in _any_ way – gentle or not. 

_I hate you,_ she reminded herself. 

Sansa parted her swollen lips. Her eyes flicked down to Petyr’s own. So close. She could just move two inches forward and kiss him. Or he could her. 

Her breasts ached to be touched, nipples hard. Only her hands seemed rational, still connected to her logical mind. They remained wisely at her sides, as far away from Littlefinger as she could stretch. 

Sansa flicked her eyes back up to Petyr’s. His dark stare seemed to connect right to the source of her pleasure, as if simply looking at her had all the power of touching her _there._

He reached out one hand and she flinched, more from fear of pleasure than pain, but he only brushed back a stray hair that had fallen from her braids. His fingers drifted lower, stroked her cheek. 

Oh gods. 

He cupped her face. 

_What was she doing?_ He just _spanked_ her. She _hated_ him. 

Petyr pulled her face to his and kissed her. 

There was nothing polite or unsure about the way he invaded her mouth with his tongue. He kissed like his own hunger entitled him to do so. Or was it the desire he read in her eyes that gave him permission? 

Sansa didn’t care. She moaned into his mouth, returning the kiss. The ache in her breasts grew, and she arched, pressing them against his chest. Her hands, so rational only moments before, became as senseless as the rest of her and flew up to Petyr’s hair. She ran her fingers through his short curls, grazing against the hard metal of his silver crown. 

_Mine._ Her hands said. _Mine,_ they claimed, as if the performer from earlier could see or hear her now. 

Petyr’s own hands were at her waist and she shifted, rising and falling again to turn and straddle his lap, unsure whether she moved herself or if he guided her into that position.

 _This is madness,_ she thought. _You have to stop._

The moment she sat, their mouths found each other once more. Sansa noticed the taste of wine on his lips, felt the scruff of his beard and mustache against her face. She groaned as she ground her hips down, pressing herself against the firmness she felt in his lap, while Petyr pulled at her hips, forcing her down harder. 

_You hate him,_ a voice repeated in her head. 

“Stop, wait,” she breathed between kisses, but she didn’t stop and neither did he. Instead, Petyr threaded his hands through her hair and pulled her tighter and she kissed him harder for it. 

_Don’t,_ the voice cautioned. _He’s manipulating you._

“Stop,” Sansa said again, with more conviction this time, even as she panted. Before he could argue (or she could change her mind) she pushed herself back and rose on wobbly legs to stand, to put distance between them. 

_This was utter madness._

Sansa was too ashamed to even acknowledge it. Instead, she said, “You can’t… order me to my room and spank me every time negotiations don’t go your way.” 

Littlefinger paused to slow his own breath; by the darkening of his eyes, clearly disappointed. But he wouldn’t be Petyr-fucking-Baelish if he didn’t recover quickly, and with some smug retort. 

“You’re right,” he whispered with more rasp to his voice than usual. “Tomorrow night, bring the hairbrush with you. If you misbehave, I’ll bend you over and punish you right at the table.” 

_You’re a bastard,_ Sansa thought, glad now she broke the kiss. 

“I’m serious. We can’t…” she bit her lip. “I may agree to a political marriage for the good of my people, but, that doesn’t mean…” 

Sansa raised her chin. She hadn’t even known she wanted the condition until now, until the words came out. “You can’t bed me whenever you choose. One of my terms will be that the act of…” she let her voice drift off, implying exactly _what_ that act was, “will be only for the production on an heir, at times of my choosing.” 

Before she even finished speaking, his mask was back. 

Littlefinger rose, by the clenching of his hand, seeming to restrain the urge to adjust the bulge beneath his robes.

“I’m serious as well, Lady Sansa. Bring the hairbrush with you to dinner tomorrow night. Though I hope for your sake it’s only needed as a reminder.” 

He crossed the room in three quick strides. 

“Defy me and see what happens.”

Littlefinger left without a backward glance. 

Sansa stared at the door with more mixed feelings than ever. Had she just come out on top, or did he? 

Littlefinger didn’t immediately refuse letting her determine how and when they would… couple. But he certainly didn’t seem likely to take any other lustful exploits off the table, either. Including disciplining her at his will. 

Moreover, Sansa had the feeling that, if she gained some ground in one area, he’d only make up for it by overtaking her in another. 

And Sansa could well imagine the depravity of Petyr’s extensive bedroom repertoire.


	9. On One Condition

“The dock?” Sansa asked, nearing the stone bulkhead. The hair on her neck stood on end thinking of all the horrors that could befall her on a ship. Littlefinger casting her overboard if she didn’t comply came prominently to mind. 

She’d been wary when the gold cloaks directed her not to another room for feasting, but outside the doors of the Red Keep, and down the rocky paths to Blackwater Bay. 

A large skiff with a green and silver canopy bobbed ahead. Sansa raised her gaze to the ship floating just beyond the towering rocks that sheltered the small cove. The largest of the white sails bore a long, black, Mockingbird sigil. 

Lord Varys, garbed in robes of green and gold, awaited. To see her off, she supposed. 

With only a sidelong glance in his direction as they walked, Sansa asked, “Will I be returning to my room this evening, or will a tragic accident befall the imposter Queen, at sea?” 

“No accident will befall you, my lady. But as to whether you’ll return to your own room or not,” he raised his eyebrows with heavy implication, “I couldn’t say.” 

A warmth, from embarrassment or anger, crept up her neck. 

“I’d forgotten, as trusted Hand I’m sure you’re privy to the King’s plans. Kept ever so busy obliging his whims.” Sansa let the bitter edge creep into her voice. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to serve a man you despise.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll understand soon enough,” Varys replied, bowing, and turning to depart. 

Sansa clenched her jaw, but did not outwardly acknowledge his comment, or departure. She climbed into the small boat - with some assistance from the guards as it wobbled - and seated herself on the bench beneath the canopy. 

She wore the gown Littlefinger provided that morning - a pale lavender-gray with long, bell sleeves and three side ties on her left. Mockingbirds and fanciful swirls patterned the bodice and skirts in a slightly darker shade of the same color. 

It fit perfectly and must have taken months to create. Which meant Littlefinger had ordered it done quite some time ago, somehow knowing her measurements and trusting she’d one day soon wear it. 

Sansa was sure Petyr knew she’d realize this. And she was sure he enjoyed having her know. 

Just as he well understood how the imprint of his sigil covering her from neck to ankle made her feel as though he’d already cloaked her, taken her as his bride. 

Knowing how Littlefinger’s mind worked would have given Sansa a smug pleasure in the past, but now these little intimacies gave her the feeling of a connection too deep to root out, too elusive to sever, even if she wielded a Valyrian sword. 

When he spanked her, caressed her the night before, Sansa had the panicky feeling of a bond shaping. Still malleable, but forming, like the forging of red-hot steel chains that encircled them _both._

When she wept, it wasn’t because of the pain, not entirely. 

But the _humiliation._ Of being punished like that. By him of all people. And worse, the shame of being _aroused._ And, gods, worse still, of being completely defenseless against him _seeing_ how she responded to his discipline. 

And the worst of all, for the dark whisper in her mind, so faint she could pretend not to hear it (because it wasn’t true anyway), that Littlefinger desired her with a singularity and intensity that seemed bordering on madness at times, and it soothed the hurt young girl he’d left without a word five years ago… and excited the woman she’d grown into. 

It was like he had once told her, long ago. 

_If you want to build a better home, you must first demolish the old one._

Sometime over his knees, Petyr annihilated the walls she’d been building up to keep him out, that worked so well in keeping anyone out, tearing them down like parchment. He inserted himself where he wanted, then continued the process of erecting his own walls around her to suit his purpose. 

The skiff approached his royal ship and Sansa climbed the ladder slowly, holding onto the ropes with a death grip for fear her long gown would catch on a shoe and send her tumbling into the waves. 

As she neared the top, two arms reached out and grabbed her, causing her to give a startled gasp as she was lifted up and over the ship’s rail. 

King Petyr Baelish set Sansa on her feet but didn’t let go, hands resting on her shoulders as if she were precious cargo he needed to assure had safely made its way on board.

He wore different robes today, layered. Underneath, an almost crushed, silky gray with ties not unlike hers. On top rested another gray robe patterned in vines. It was thicker than the silk, but, fully open, soft enough to billow in the wind behind him. Instead of his usual belt, his dagger hung strapped to one side. As always, the silver crown rested atop his short black-and-gray hair. 

Another girl, a silly girl whose bottom didn’t still smart a little, might have thought the clever new King to look _dashing_ with his open robe rising up with the wind behind him, with the way the sunlight played on the cool green-gray of his eyes. 

Another girl might swoon at the way those sharp eyes bored into hers, at the King’s hands holding her firmly, at his mouth so close, scented of… mint? 

Sansa wretched her shoulders from his grip and took a deep step backward. 

“Why are we here?” she asked. 

“I thought it might improve our discussions if we had a change of scenery.” 

Sansa chewed on that. Unless she wound up overboard, they couldn’t go much worse than the last time. 

“Come,” Petyr said, extending one hand. The other, formal as ever, tucked neatly at his waist. 

Sansa walked where he indicated, up a set of stairs to the highest deck on the stern. She climbed gingerly, holding onto to rails. The last thing she needed was to fall backwards into Littlefinger’s arms. From the way he walked closely behind her, she suspected he eagerly anticipated such a happy accident. And then, always so free to touch her, his hand did reach out to guide her, warm and firm on the small of her back. 

She spied a table, starboard. 

“We’re dining here?” Sansa asked, pushing her windswept hair from her face. “Why?”

Of all the responses she expected, _having an audience of crewmembers to make sure you behave_ or _abandoning you to sea if you don’t agree to my terms,_ what she heard surprised her enough to make her mouth fall slightly open. 

“Any king or queen planning to rule should at the very least see the kingdom before taking the throne. You’ve not yet left the Red Keep. We had to rectify this.” 

It was almost… considerate. 

She crossed to the railing to take in the view of the city, admittedly feeling a little giddy when they began to sail. Thousands of squat, white houses with orange rooftops ascended the hills passing by. 

After a moment, Sansa stiffened, feeling Petyr pressing up behind her, caging her body between his arms as they reached out to hold onto the railing on either side of her.

She could hear the smile in his voice. 

“Do you like it?” he asked, a rasp in her ear. 

Before she could answer, he pointed. “There. Can you see where I’m rebuilding the Great Sept? It won’t be complete in time for our wedding, but, I’m sure we can find another site.” 

Sansa eyed the broken bones of the dome, arching against the blue sky. 

She didn’t care if the sept wasn’t ready, she didn’t want to get married there. She didn’t want to get married at all. Especially not to Petyr Baelish. The very idea was a cruel joke by the gods. 

“Why?” she asked, without turning from the city. “Why do you want to marry me? Why did you even bring me here? It had been years since we even last saw each other.” 

“Since you last saw me or I last saw you?”

Sansa turned now, irritated at picturing all the ways Lord Baelish might have observed her from some shadowy corner, without her knowledge. 

It was a mistake, as the move only brought her lips close to his. 

Would they taste like mint, or salt air? 

Her heartbeat picked up, remembering the delicious feeling of his tongue sliding into her mouth. 

_Look away._

“Why the charade of a choice?” she asked, softly. 

“If I’m forced to drag you to a sept and take you on our wedding night, Northmen might riot for their Queen. Which will be a costly and time-consuming endeavor to squash,” Petyr explained with a small shrug. 

“Not to mention a blight on the reputation of Petyr the Plentiful,” Sansa pointed out. 

“Prosperous,” he corrected, eyes dancing with mischief. “I spun your assassination attempt in my favor. I’m sure I can sing the common folk a more flattering song, if we have to do this by force.”

He _could._ But he didn’t want to. It was some power she had, at least. 

“We’re both dreamers, Sansa,” Littlefinger whispered, leaning in even closer and she could smell his skin, clean and masculine. “We both picture a better world. You didn’t understand, back then. It’s not the one we live in now. We can’t get there unless we make it ourselves.” 

Sansa understood him now. Even the spaces between his words. He offered her dreams. Everything. He just required her to give him everything of herself in return. 

She licked her lips, finding the embarrassing words difficult with him standing so close. 

“You can’t punish me every time you don’t approve of something I do.”

“Can’t I?” he asked. 

“No.”

He smirked that _gods damn_ smirk. “It brings me pleasure, having you defenseless over my knees.” Petyr leaned in, next to her ear, and she could feel the graze of his beard against her cheek as he whispered, “From the way you were _soaked,_ I think it brought you pleasure too.” 

A tingle grew from where his face touched hers and spread outward. She had to restrain from pitching herself into the ocean, just to hide. And _gods,_ she fought not to close her eyes, not to let her face color. 

The wind blew her hair back and away, little help there. Littlefinger backed up, his eyes flicked down. Toward her lips, as he leaned forward again to take them. She had nowhere to go, no way to back up out of his arms and _did she even want to?_

_How could a man smell so good? Look so gods damn good?_ It was doing funny things to her head.

The thud of metal on wood caused her to turn and find the servants setting the table. Another servant came up behind the first, and Sansa used the distraction to wiggle free of Petyr’s arms, reluctantly loosening with the audience nearby. She practically bolted to the table took one of the seats, immediately picking up the goblet of wine to indulge in a deep sip. 

_He’s a murderer,_ she reminded herself, fuming that she even needed the reminder. 

Following her lead, Petyr slowly crossed to the opposite side and with one flick of his hands, cast his robes behind him as he sat. 

“We can discuss terms here, as we dine. Take in the beauty of sunset.” He smiled the type of smile Sansa wanted to smack right off his face. “Did you bring the hairbrush, by the way?” 

Sansa frowned, pointedly. Negotiating with his copulating performers on display hadn’t produced his intended results so… what? He’d try the allure of the sun setting beyond the capitol instead?

Without a word, she withdrew the brush from the folds of her gown and slammed it onto the table. Neither the sparkling sea, nor the reminder of what transpired between the two of them had any power over her. 

Littlefinger would not distract her tonight. 

“What happened to my parents?” Sansa asked, hoping to catch him off guard (and maybe hoping the quivering plea in her voice didn’t reach his ears.) 

Petyr leaned in, resting one elbow on the table, hand raised in the air. He rubbed his fingers together as he studied her, considering his words. 

“Your parents were betrayed,” he announced, with his usual bluntness. “The Boltons and the Freys conspired against them.” 

Sansa shook her head but he continued. 

“You were correct to think their deaths were not the result of a random skirmish in the North. But the tragedy was rather a set up between Walder Frey and Roose Bolton. It was Roose who slew your parents, making it look to be a part of battle.”

Sansa realized she stopped breathing, and quickly drew in air to steady her vision, which had begun to blur around the edges. 

Her mother should have never been in the war camps, she knew it wasn’t natural. But betrayed by their own men? 

She took a sip of wine, needing time to think. She barely tasted it on her lips, she just needed something to _do._

“That’s not true,” Sansa protested when she finished. “Roose and his bastard died immediately after my parents. The deaths were related. Someone murdered them as well.” 

“Someone did.” Littlefinger replied, a look in his eyes Sansa could not decipher. 

“I would have done anything to protect Cat, or failing that, avenge her. When I found out what happened, I arranged for the Boltons to be assassinated myself.” 

Sansa scoffed, refusing to believe a word out of his lying mouth. 

“But the Freys,” she argued, seeking a poke a hole in his story, “Walder only just died a few days ago. Arya sent word herself, if it’s true you’re allowing us to communicate and that letter-”

Before Sansa finished, her stomach sank; a dreadful, heavy feeling. 

Her mouth parted in surprise, then turned down in a frown, disgusted. 

She looked up, narrowed her eyes at Littlefinger. 

“You needed the Twins,” she proclaimed. “You killed Roose to avenge my mother. Because you didn’t _need_ him.” 

Her mind raced, working it out even as she spoke. “But if you were going to invade the North, you needed the Twins at your disposal. You couldn’t kill Walder. Not yet. Not until you positioned your men, not until you had me.” 

Littlefinger shrugged, more pleased that she’d figured it out, than shamed at her knowing. 

“How could you?”

“Put my long term needs over short term ones, or those of someone else? Easily. You’ve done the same yourself.” 

Sansa shook her head. “No.” 

“Oh? You didn’t put your own needs over those of the Dornish Prince? Sitting in the Water Gardens, waiting on the dangled promise of your hand? Did you know he put aside his true love for that hope, for duty? She married another, and was lost to him forever.” 

Sansa still shook her head. She _needed_ the Dornish ally. What choice did she have? Petyr made her feel awful when he put it that way. 

“I… I did what I had to in order to survive.”

“You did what you had to in order to win.” 

She _wasn’t_ like him, she wouldn’t listen. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “You put my life in danger.” 

“From Walder Frey? Who wanted you for his sons?” Littlefinger clucked his tongue and the idea. “Besides, we weren’t really speaking now were we?”

“You know bloody well we were communicating in other ways,” Sansa spat, the rare use of profanity passing through her lips to show Petyr just how furious she was. 

Sansa wasn’t sure who her anger was directed at most – Petyr, the gods, herself. She hated to admit just a _twinge_ of guilt over trying to kill him. Not that the bastard didn’t deserve it for a thousand other crimes. But it seemed murdering her parents wasn’t one of them. 

Now, however, anger was an emotion she could use. Crying or even arguing over the past wouldn’t help her. 

“Let’s discuss terms,” she said, laying her hands flat on the table, voice hard. 

Petyr worked his jaw, seemingly reluctant to agree. When Sansa blinked slowly, impatient, he gave a quick nod. 

“If I marry you, what will you grant the North in return?”

“Diving right into the big stakes? You don’t want to start small? Wait for dinner, perhaps?” 

Sansa continued to pin him with her ice stare. “What will you grant the North?” 

“A seat on the small council,” Littlefinger said. “Permanently.” 

“It’s not enough.”

His lip curled, amused.

“A stay in any minor war. No Northmen will be called to fulfill their oaths unless, _until,_ a great war breaks out.” 

“I’ll need in writing what constitutes a ‘great war’” Sansa replied. 

“Of course,” Littlefinger said. “No northern soldiers will serve in the King’s army, unless the man volunteers, and no man will be called to any lesser battles.”

“What is a _great war?”_ Sansa pressed.

“Oh, say, the combined forces of Essos attack,” Littlefinger replied. “Another Targaryen comes forth with a dragon and a claim. Or, if there’s a significant threat to the Baelish dynasty and after all resources have been exhausted, only an influx of northern soldiers can sway the tide of battle.” 

Sansa tilted her head. All events seemed unlikely in the near future. Still. 

“It’s not enough,” she repeated. 

Littlefinger’s tongue darted out, licking his lower lip. “Reduced taxes on most goods and services. By five percent. It’s my best and final offer.” 

“Alright,” Sansa said, leaning back. “Last and best in terms of gold. But we’re not done discussing more independence.” 

“Don’t forget, my lady. In return your people receive the protection of the crown. Shipments of southern crops throughout long winters. Septons and maesters and masons and all manner of learned men to freely contribute to your land.” 

“I can be generous, you know,” he added. 

Sansa didn’t take the bait, whatever it was. 

Littlefinger’s lip curled, wicked gleam in his eyes, and she knew something else was coming anyway.

“Agreed to table. Let’s talk about more personal terms, shall we?” His eyes flicked to the hairbrush. 

“I- I meant what I said,” she stammered, butterflies taking flight in her stomach. “I don’t want to… lay together…”

“Fuck, Lady Sansa,” Petyr interrupted in a breathy whisper, and Sansa’s cheeks colored, never before having heard him speak in such a manner. He continued in a low voice, “You’re not a child anymore. Even though you need to be handled like one sometimes. I think you can manage the word.” 

On another man, it might sound boorish, but from Petyr’s lips, the word rolled off his tongue in a sensual manner that only made her picture the act between them. 

Sansa’s face deepened in color, but she corrected, _“Fuck._ I don’t want to… fuck unless I agree to it each time.” 

Petyr watched her mouth, the bastard undoubtedly delighted in corrupting it. 

“You are aware it will need to happen on our wedding night? You have attended a bedding before, I presume? The lords and ladies listening outside the door will require proof of consummation.” 

Sansa swallowed, growing uncomfortably hot just discussing it. 

“I’m aware,” she said weakly. 

“Good,” he replied, seemingly satisfied that it would occur shortly, and perhaps convinced it would be so enjoyable she wouldn’t refuse it happening quickly again.

“Then I will allow you to set the pace in that regard only. I will determine all other activities in our bed, and you will submit to each of them.” 

He spoke the words like savoring a meal, baring teeth, tongue darting out to lick his lips at the end. 

_Our bed._

Had the sea breeze died down? It had definitely grown warmer. Sansa fidgeted with the neck of her dress. 

“It will take at least a moon’s turn to plan an appropriate wedding, but you will join me in my bed this evening, and each thereafter.” 

“My best and final offer,” Littlefinger repeated. 

_Tonight?_

Unable to form words, Sansa only bit her lip and tried to slow her breathing. 

A thought suddenly came to mind, picturing their wedding day.

“What about my Aunt Lysa?” she asked, eager to change the subject. 

“What about her?” Petyr replied. 

“She’s been in love with you since she was a girl. I know for a fact she awaits word from you to come to King’s Landing, to be your Queen. I don’t know how you’ve managed to keep her away this long.” 

Littlefinger’s eyes darkened. “Let me worry about your aunt,” was all he said. 

Servants appeared once more, carrying plates of roasted lamb with what looked like mint sauce, stewed carrots, and strawberry pies. They laid it all forth at once, then quickly departed to give the King privacy. 

One by one, Sansa could see fires shining in the houses of King’s Landing, and she had to admit it was quite a pretty sight against the deep orange sky. Nightfall would be upon them soon. She had the feeling that the time for negotiations was slipping away. 

_What choice do I really have?_ she thought with dismay. Petyr held her, just as he held the North. They both knew she had no real power to deny him, he’d simply drag her to the sept and take what he wanted. The beat of her heart sped to imagine it. 

But saying all this was another matter entirely. Saying it made it real. 

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. 

“I will… marry you on these terms…” 

It sounded foreign, like someone else spoke the words. 

“All of them. But I ask for a wedding gift first.” 

Sansa could tell she’d intrigued Petyr by the glint in his eyes. Her voice grew stronger. 

“Something you’ll do. But you must agree without knowing what it is. You must promise me.” 

“It cannot be an act that will endanger either of our lives,” he immediately stipulated, seeming open to discuss the idea. “Or involve setting you or the North free.” 

“It has nothing to do with the North or letting me out of our agreement. It will not physically harm you or myself in any way. It will be contained to _one_ thing. Just _one_ request I have. It will only take a moment to fulfill, and nothing physically will change with my _submission_ as a result.” 

Sansa hoped that mentioning her forsworn compliance would lead Petyr’s mind in the direction of vile bedroom activities. That, having promised to submit to his will, her pride would demand some subservience of him in return (and gods dammed if it she didn’t desperately want to, but she needed something else more.) 

“If I agree, you will consent to marriage without force?” he asked. The hungry gleam in Petyr’s eyes almost made Sansa forget what a deceitful bastard, what a murderous egomaniac he was. He momentarily had a hopeful, boyish look. Something that, with his graying hair and bearded chin, Sansa had always found difficult to imagine. 

She nodded. “I swear it. But you must swear to do this for me.” 

“Done,” he snapped. 

Sansa took a breath. 

“Tell me how you killed Daenerys Targaryen.” 

Petyr leaned back in his chair and startling horns of warning blew in Sansa’s head. 

She’d been right. He desperately didn’t want her to know.

 _Why?_

She knew Petyr had murdered the Dragon Queen. But what could that have to do with _her?_ Had it been so gruesome he didn’t want her to imagine him in such a horrific capacity? That couldn’t be right – Daenerys hadn’t a mark upon her. 

Was she not truly dead, but being tortured in some dungeon? No, Petyr wouldn’t risk such an act. 

What then? What had the death of the previous queen had to do with her? 

Sansa’s stomach knotted. Did Petyr plan to someday kill her in the same manner? 

She felt sickness rise in her throat at the idea that this might be his plan, that she’d mysteriously die once he married her -- until he spoke, pulling her out of the thought and quashing it. 

“Alright. But not today. I will tell you on our wedding day. Do you accept these terms?” 

_No,_ she didn’t want to be stalled in this manner. But seven hells, his army could conquer her people at any moment, and she held a better life for all of them, by agreeing to give Petyr her hand.

How had she gotten here? She spent five years trying to destroy Petyr Baelish. Now she dined beside him, his bride-to-be. 

“I…” Sansa whispered. The castle walls she’d imagined around her now had an iron gate, and it was as if it slammed shut and locked before her eyes, Petyr dangling the key from the other side. No more illusions of freedom. He wasn’t a tall man or an exceptionally strong one, but there was a hardness to him that made coming up against him feel a useless as throwing herself against a stone wall, a steel barrier. 

“I will… _marry you.”_ The last words were nearly inaudible, the barest whisper of breath. 

Petyr flashed the satisfied smirk of a king who’d closed in on everything he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using the ASOIAF description of a bedding ceremony.


	10. The Pleasure is Mine

“No, _no,”_ Sansa protested. Then, thinking better added softly, “please.” 

Petyr scrunched his lips to one side, considering her appeal. 

“On our wedding night,” she countered. “Until then, my room.” 

She wasn’t sure why it made such a difference. It would only bring greater tension to their wedding night itself, as if she needed that. But her room gave her a sense of safety and, more importantly, it threw up another barrier. However pitiful, all Sansa could do was continually throw up these barricades to help slow the inevitable conquest of… whatever it was Petyr seemed to want from her. 

He nodded, dipping his head almost like a small bow. 

Reaching her room, however, Sansa wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake. Whatever transpired that night - each night thereafter - would be inescapable every time she looked at her bed. 

She’d come south not knowing if she’d be killed. Petyr had more than enough cause to publicly justify doing so. As they entered her bedchambers together, she reminded herself that she should feel _lucky_ she was still alive. 

And that he’d waited this long. King Petyr Baelish could have come into her room and raped her as soon as she’d arrived. Whatever shrouded reason he had for making her his Queen, he didn’t need the excuse to bed her. He could have done far worse than raping her even, he could have turned her over to his guards next, or lost her to one of his brothels, let strangers have their turn. 

And even if some hidden cause motivated his taking her as wife, he didn’t need to agree to let her carry out their bedding on her own terms, she reasoned. 

But using reason to calm herself wasn’t working. 

She could feel Littlefinger behind her, staring. 

It was both _knowing_ where this time alone with Petyr would lead, as well as _not_ knowing exactly where it would lead. Technically, everything but the act of deflowering her was on the table. 

“Turn around,” Petyr said, and Sansa swore she heard the rough edge of desire in his voice already. 

She turned, albeit slowly. 

“Are you really allowing Arya and I to send ravens?” she asked, stalling. 

King Baelish nodded. 

“I assume you’ll be reading them all beforehand,” she continued, aware she was nervously babbling but unable to stop. 

“You assume correctly,” he replied. “We can discuss it later.” 

In two steps he closed the distance between them. 

Petyr took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting it. 

“Look at me,” he said. Sansa struggled to lift her eyes, as if the muscles bore weights making it physically difficult. 

She swallowed. _Oh yes. He had plans for tonight._

He laid his other hand on her shoulder, steadying it, and Sansa became aware of her trembling. It was ridiculous, yet she couldn’t stop. 

Petyr let out a breath that was not quite a sigh, but almost. 

“I will return shortly. In the meantime, I want you to undress, fully.” 

He didn’t give Sansa much time for her spinning head to process his words before he turned and left. Once he did, her heart began a frantic beat. 

On the one hand, she felt grateful that she could disrobe alone. On the other, he still wanted her to disrobe. 

For a minute she deliberated, then, fearing his returning and catching her in a state of undress, her hands moved of their own accord. At least she could hide under the sheets if she hurried. 

She flung off her dress, grateful the side tides allowed her to do so without a maid’s help, and practically tore her shift and small clothes from her body. Sansa scrambled into bed and pulled the sheet up tight around her neck, like a frightened child seeking protection from some monster in the shadows. 

Which, Sansa thought wryly, wasn’t far off from the truth. 

…and yet… she might have trembled for all the monster he _wasn’t._

She hadn’t _disliked_ his needy kiss, his eager hands on her the night before. What if she didn’t entirely dislike it again? 

Gods, why _him_ of all men? Petyr just _knew_ things that made her nervous. 

The door opened, and Sansa’s head whipped it its direction. 

She sucked in a breath and bit her lip, hard. 

Littlefinger entered, carrying rope in his left hand. 

The door slammed shut behind him. 

Without a word, he walked over to the bed and climbed beside her. 

“Let go of the sheet, lay down, and give me your right arm,” he whispered. The hard set to his eyes, his mouth, told her not to argue, yet she could never help herself. 

“No, I-”

“We can do this now or we can do this with after I spank you. It’s always your choice.” 

Sansa let out a sound between a whimper and a groan, as she laid her head back on the pillow and stretched out her arm in offering. 

Petyr took her hand and made quick work of tying the rope around her wrist and up to the wooden post on the end of the tufted headboard. It didn’t hurt, but it was tight enough to hold her, to chafe if she struggled. 

Sansa’s breath quickened as he reached over and repeated the action on her left wrist. Within moments her two arms were spread and secured to the bed. 

She had no hope of getting free until Petyr decided to let her go. The thought pained her lungs, like they weren’t getting enough air. Her face felt clammy, her vision fuzzy. 

Petyr’s breathy chuckle caught her attention, though it sounded distant. 

For the first time, she looked at him. 

“What?” she demanded, his condescending tone vexing her enough to bring her mind back into focus. 

“I imagine you’ve sent men to their deaths in battle, even ordering the execution of some, as the Lady of Winterfell. You came here not knowing if you rode toward your own death.” He crooked his one-sided smile. “Yet it’s the idea of being naked in bed with me that endangers you of swooning. Breathe, sweetling. I swear to you, there won’t be any pain, if you do as I say.” 

He cocked his head at her. 

“Though I imagine you fear pleasure as much as pain. At least, at my hands,” he added, amused by the notion. Sansa felt a blush creep up her cheeks. 

Littlefinger sat back, pausing. Sansa was aware of every inch of her skin, every naked inch, hidden beneath the bedding. With nothing but a simple sheet separating the two of them. With no way to stop him if, _once,_ he decided to remove it. 

She twisted her wrists against the ropes, earning slight burns, seeking any give, any space to slide out her hand. 

Petyr seemed to be prolonging the moment. 

Finally, his ringed hand reached for the top of the bedsheet. As his fingers grazed Sansa’s chest, the simple touch caused a tingle throughout her body. Loosely, he fisted the edge of the sheet and began a downward pull, unwrapping her like a gift. 

Every part of Sansa’s body screamed _no_ but she couldn’t do anything to stop his progress. Slowly, Littlefinger inched the sheet toward himself. The edge rose as it neared the tips of her nipples, then fell, passing over the swell of her breasts. 

Halfway naked to the air, to his gaze, he stopped. 

Sansa tugged against the ropes in an instinctive attempt to cover herself, letting out a soft moan when she failed. 

Petyr drank in the sight of her chest, rising and falling with shallow, frantic breath that threatened to set her swooning again if she didn’t _calm down._

When she finally dared a look at Petyr’s eyes, she was sorry to see he was looking down now, following his hand as it recommenced the pull of the sheet ever lower. 

Slowly, the edge of her blessed covering reached the patch of hair by her sex, and Sansa blushed furiously as Petyr continued his pull, down and down, past the join of her legs, past her thighs, knees, even her feet, until she was completely without protection from his stare. 

Every agonizing second dragged out to an eternity. She wasn’t sure how much time passed when he spoke. 

“I enjoy you like this,” he rasped. 

“Naked?” her voice cracked halfway through the word, even though she’d done nothing more than breathe the softest whisper. 

“Helpless to me,” he replied, and for some reason that sent a tremor through her. 

It was going to get worse, of course it was going to get worse, and yet she couldn’t help but feel it happened too soon when she heard him command, _“spread your legs.”_

Sansa pursed her lips and shook her head. She couldn’t. 

“The hairbrush is on your dressing table. Do you need me to use it on you before you do as I say? Or perhaps my belt?” 

Petyr ran his fingers along her neck and collarbone, raising goosebumps where he trailed. “I’ve always found a lady’s cooperation much improved by a thorough dose of the belt. One day I think it will be a very motivating punishment for you, as well.” 

“No,” Sansa whispered, shivering at the thought. She most certainly did not want the brush again, let alone his belt. She wondered, had he… punished… many ladies in such a manner? 

With her eyes screwed shut, she opened her legs. 

“Wider. Knees up,” Petyr ordered, and Sansa died a thousand times over just hearing those words. She hated him and all his commands, she really did. Even if an ache had begun in her core. 

Groaning in protest, she considered refusing, before accepting that he could just wretch her legs apart himself and spank her for disobeying. 

She spread her legs wider and bent them, so that her knees were raised, so that the very lips of her sex parted, revealing _everything_ to him. 

There was nowhere to hide, no way to cover herself, nothing to do but endure Littlefinger’s stare and the flush of heat that crept up her neck and face. 

Somehow, Petyr’s eyes alone felt like an entire audience. Sansa thought it couldn’t have been worse if she’d been stripped and displayed in the middle of the Great Hall. She might have preferred that if only it wasn’t _him,_ if twenty other men saw her but _he_ wasn’t there. 

Sansa heard Petyr move, felt the shift in weight on the bed as he inserted himself between her legs and all hope of ever closing them vanished into thin air. 

Frantic to know what he intended, she looked at him. 

His dark stare took in all of her. Sweeping down, up… and down again, leaving a trail of heat along her body. That madman look came into his eyes again, almost unhinged. The odd thing was, as much as it frightened Sansa, it relaxed her too. Calmed some of the embarrassment she felt at being bared for his viewing pleasure, to know he liked what he saw. 

_Why in seven hells should I care if he likes what he sees?_

Without further hesitation, he reached forward and cupped her breasts. 

Sansa moaned, and her stupid, foolish body arched into his palms. They fit perfectly. She hadn’t overly large breasts, but right now she didn’t care. They fit Petyr’s hands like they were made for them. She relished the warmth of his skin just as much as the coolness of his metal rings against her sensitive flesh. She had the wild thought that she wanted him to cup her breasts like that forever. That somehow it belonged this way. 

After a few moments he let go, but not before he rolled her nipples between his fingers, pinched them gently, and smiled with satisfaction at the hardened peaks.

He moved downward, trailing his long fingers over the flat of her stomach and her breath came in quick, short bursts again, knowing exactly where Petyr headed and imagining what was displayed for him there. 

He stroked her sensitive inner thighs first, and Sansa felt, with acute embarrassment, the slickness of her own desire. 

“I love how wet you always are for me,” Petyr whispered, and his words made her want to die in shame once more. 

“I haven’t even touched you yet,” he remarked, gratified. 

“What happens when I…” he trailed off, gently dragging his finger toward the source of her ache and when he connected, Sansa jumped, hips bucking with desire. 

She didn’t need to look to know he smirked. 

Petyr softly ran his finger up and down her slit. Sansa pursed her lips, but a muffled _mmpf_ passed through. Her head fell back, her eyelids fluttered. She yanked the ropes and squirmed side-to-side. 

She couldn’t allow this. He’d know everything. 

When Petyr slid his finger inside, she let out a cry. 

_Gods dammit._ She hated him. 

Her hips rolled toward him, seeking deeper fulfillment. 

Sansa pursed her lips again, determined not to give him the satisfaction of her verbal encouragement. She might not be able to control her traitorous lower half, but she could be damn sure not let Petyr know, with moans, that she enjoyed anything he did. 

He slid two fingers into her and the wicked man curled them. 

_“Oh,”_ Sansa gasped, with obvious pleasure. 

_What was wrong with her?_

All coherent thoughts fled from her mind after that. Sansa’s body slackened, as if she melted into the bed. 

Petyr took his time, probing her with two fingers, sliding out and torturing her with one. Replacing two again, then using his other hand to circle her swollen clitoris, which made Sansa moan and yelp, she imagined, like a whore in one of his brothels. Certainly no ladies cried out in such a manner. 

Petyr gently rotated his fingers inside her, deeply, then shallow, before thrusting again, hard, with renewed speed. 

Dimly, she had the idea that he was learning her, and it would come to no good end. 

_Knowledge is power,_ were his words after all, and she felt he was seeking to know all of her, to keep her in his power. 

And _fuck,_ if it didn’t feel so damn good at that moment, she almost didn’t care. She could feel the pressure build, feel the tightening in her begging for imminent release. She knew what it meant, but gods, it had never felt like this. No one else had ever brought her to this place before, she’d only gotten herself there alone. 

Sansa yanked at the ropes, uncaring if they burned her wrists, she just needed her hands free to… she wasn’t sure what, she didn’t dare finish the thought.

“Would you like to come?” Petyr asked, softly, smugly. 

_Fucking bastard,_ she thought. A good man, a gentle man, the man she was supposed to marry would never ask such an impolite --

_“Ahh,”_ Sansa moaned as his thrusting fingers quickened their pace and her hips matched his speed, desperate for satisfaction. 

Then he stopped, slowed, and Sansa thought she’d go mad with frustration. 

“Would you like to come?” Petyr repeated. 

Sansa shook her head hard and whimpered a “no” so pathetic she might as well have sobbed “yes.” 

Littlefinger smiled, and Sansa caught it. A rare, genuine grin that touched his eyes. He looked so _adorable_ for a fleeting moment, it penetrated the core of her just as much as his attentions with his hands. Sansa briefly forgot she hated him. 

When she realized her guard slipped, she repeated, “no,” nearly growling this time. 

Petyr’s tongue darted out to lick his lips. He still grinned, but it was more mischievous now. 

“So stubborn,” he tsked. “I would like to watch you shatter into my hands. Screaming and sobbing your delight. It would please me. Don’t you want to please your King?”

_Shameless._ He taunted shamelessly, ever smug. Sansa’s hands itched to smack at his face, claw the smirk from it. 

Only, _gods no,_ her lower half seemed to want to do something else entirely with his mouth. 

“No. I will do nothing for your pleasure.” It sounded more like a plea than a proclamation. 

Petyr gave one low laugh, then pushed his fingers as far as they could go inside her and the sound that tore from her throat was the mindless moan of base, primal lust. 

Thrusting his fingers in and out, rubbing against her clit, Littlefinger whispered roughly, “Oh, I think you will do many things for my pleasure.”

Fighting the exquisite torture of both his hands was a battle she had no hope of winning. Sansa _hated_ to admit it, but this was the fulfillment she sought five years ago, finally coming to fruition. The completion of what Petyr started on the garden floor at Winterfell. The illicit fantasy that haunted her when she slid her own fingers down at night. 

She twisted her hands, grasping and clinging to the ropes until her knuckles turned white. 

She began to ride his fingers, unconcerned if she was giving him what he wanted, if she looked like a common whore, just desperately needing that release…

…which came within seconds. Her toes curled, her legs stiffened and shuddered. The walls of her sex clenched around Petyr’s fingers as she cried out. A spark of white-hot hate mixed with delirious ecstasy shot through her as she came, right into her enemy’s hands. 

And _gods dammit,_ she wasn’t sure if she’d moaned his name. A mumble between _Petyr_ and _please_ escaped her lips at the height of it. 

He didn’t withdraw immediately, but kept his fingers deep within while the aftershocks of her orgasm ran through her body and she seized upon his digits one last time. 

Petyr stretched upward, then lowered himself next to her ear, close enough for her to feel his breath. “Good girl,” he whispered, in approval. 

Sansa grit her teeth. He spoke as if she were some horse he’d broken, trained. A destrier he’d parade at court. The shame of what she’d done came creeping back; her face grew hot. 

“Untie me,” she said, her own voice raspy. Her throat had run dry. Sansa realized she was covered in a sheen of sweat. 

Petyr, perceptive as ever, stood and walked to her small table. He picked up a jug and poured a glass of water. 

“Drink,” he commanded, bringing it to her lips like a parent to a child. Sansa wanted to spit it at him, but drank deep, greedy gulps instead. 

She licked her lips, then repeated, “untie me, now.” 

“No,” Petyr said. 

Sansa met his eyes, ignoring her own blushes. “Why?” 

“We’re not done,” he answered, matter-of-factly. 

He lifted his hands to his head and removed his crown. He placed it on her table before shrugging off his outer robe and tossing it onto a chair. He climbed back into bed, wearing only the light silken robe beneath. 

Petyr forcefully kneed her legs apart again, Sansa having closed them immediately after he left her. 

She groaned. “What else do you want?” 

Petyr replied, “It’s more about finding out what you want, sweetling.” 

His fingers grazed the sopping lips of her sex once more and she whimpered, to his delight. It was only now Sansa realized he must have removed one of his rings sometime before, without her noticing, because she hadn’t felt it when he touched her earlier. 

“I don’t want any of this,” she protested, trying to squeeze her legs together. 

Petyr suddenly withdrew his hands. His tongue ran along his lower lip. 

“How about we play a little game?” he asked. 

“Aren’t we always?” Sansa replied, dryly. 

Petyr’s eyebrows raised as if giving approval to her response, before saying, “I’d like you to come again, for me. If I can’t make that happen, I won’t touch you again until our wedding night.”

Sansa eyed him warily. 

“And if you do collapse into shudders of bliss… just admit the truth of what you like.” 

Sansa gave a non-committal shrug. She didn’t want to play any games, but also didn’t believe it would be difficult to thwart him. She’d pleasured herself twice in a row before, and the second time was never as intense as the first. She felt fairly confident she could stave off an orgasm. 

But when Petyr’s eyes danced, a creeping sense of nervousness spread over her. 

He lowered himself flat on the bed, and the idiotic words tumbled out of her mouth. 

“What are you doing?” 

He moved his head toward the join between her legs.

“Wait! What are you doing?” 

His only reply was to slide his tongue into her sex and Sansa saw _stars._

It wasn’t fair. He never said anything about… this. 

Hope of resisting faded away with the rest of the world; Sansa felt only the delicious attention of Petyr’s tongue. She didn’t think any sensation could feel more exquisite… 

…and then he inserted his fingers deep inside her while moving upward to suck on her nub at the same time. 

Sansa moaned a loud surrender, thrashing on the bed for _more, harder._ This was what all those erotic books carried on about. Surely, this was the pinnacle of ecstasy. 

He teased her with soft licks, before taking her clitoris in his mouth with a pressure bordering on pain, then moved down to suck at her folds before heading up again. After a few cycles he settled into a rhythm. Fingers probing, curling, deep inside her; tongue pressed against the nub of her pleasure, building up the pressure within, sending her toward the edge. 

Sansa wasn’t sure how much of it was really about what she wanted, for her own pleasure, versus how much Petyr wanted to master her enjoyment, for his. 

And when she helplessly shuddered her next orgasm into his mouth a minute later, she wasn’t sure there was a difference. 

Sansa refrained from calling his name, but the manic pleas of _“oh gods, yes, please,”_ tumbled from her lips. 

_Yes and yes,_ and if all of Westeros burned at that moment, she wouldn’t care. All that mattered was Petyr, and what he did to her. 

_Petyr, Petyr,_ she thought the name she refused to speak as she came down, riding the last waves of pleasure, back to reality. 

Her heart thudded loudly in her chest. 

_Seven hells._ What was the point of denying it, verbally, when she’d just shouted her bliss?

Seven hells, always. With Petyr Baelish lording over each, luring her ever deeper. She was descending into yet another, she felt it. He was mastering her, like a musical instrument he wanted to learn. Now that he’d broken her will to fight him, he intended to explore and understand all of her body, until he owned it. And he did. He could do whatever he wanted with her, physically. 

That was it then, she was in the fifth level of hell. _Owning her body._ She was sure it was hell because she didn’t completely hate it, and that was worse, that was more dangerous, than anything. 

“Fine. Okay,” Sansa breathed. “I will tell you how I feel. Then, please, untie me.” 

She licked her lips. “I don’t want to marry you. I wish you would let me go home. King’s Landing is not my home.” 

“But… I liked what you did,” she closed her eyes as she said that part, then quickly added, “But I hate you.” 

_Do you?_ asked a voice inside her head. Well, it was true she wanted to go back to Winterfell. She was sure of that, at least. 

“That’s fair,” Littlefinger appraised, speaking low, out of one side of his mouth.

“Now, untie me. No more. Please.” 

She was too exhausted and ashamed to do anything other than roll over and fall asleep. Her thoughts and feelings, too jumbled to work through. She needed time to collect herself before facing him again. Her arms ached. Her eyelids felt heavy. 

After Petyr relented, untying her arms, she couldn’t muster the strength to do anything other than rub her wrists and curl on her side, utterly spent. 

Her eyes fluttered open, startled, when she felt the faintest of kisses brush her cheek. Petyr straightened, lifting his crown from the table and replacing it atop his head.

“Leave the ropes on the bed. We’ll need them for tomorrow night.” 

“But the maids will see them,” she protested groggily, struggling to lift her head off the pillow. 

“Then they’ll know what a disobedient little girl you are.” 

_How could he do that?_ Go from something gentle, like kissing her cheek, to saying something so infuriating?

“What’s going to happen tomorrow night?” Sansa demanded, fuming now, despite her exhaustion. 

Petyr only stared, saying nothing. 

Sansa knew what he was thinking anyway. 

_Whatever I want._

A terrible, wild idea began to take shape in Sansa’s head as he turned and left. 

_No. Not this time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used some modern sexy terms.


	11. Power Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This starts off a bit slow, but gets better, I promise! 
> 
> I've had a lemon tree (long before becoming a Sansa stan) and the white flowers that bloom for a week in the spring scent the air with the perfume of the gods, true story.

“I do believe my King’s in love,” Ros cooed. 

Sansa didn’t share her enthusiasm. “I know Littlefinger better than anyone. He’s doing this for a reason. I just can’t figure out what it is.” 

“And what’s his reason for staring out the window, running his frustrated hands through his hair and nearly knocking the crown off his head in the process? What could be the reason his face is positively pained with longing when no one’s looking?” 

“Someone’s always looking,” Sansa replied. _Obviously._

Running brothels had colored Ros’s outlook to see more sex and love, than politics and power. What really stirred Westerosi society. 

Sansa stared out her own window at another beautiful morning dawning on the capitol. From here, she could almost smell the sweet, heavy perfume of the little white flowers lemon trees bore in springtime. Petyr had them planted all around the keep. _Long before her arrival._ He’d also ordered bands of strong men to clean the streets, as well as repair the capitol’s sewage systems as quickly as possible, before the heat of summer set in. 

He had focused those efforts first on the Red Keep and the brothels, of course. 

Ros had come to help her dress, Sansa having been summoned to observe the small council meeting, to watch Petyr hold court in the great hall, to learn about life in King’s Landing. 

Instead of dressing and making small talk, she wanted to ask Ros, _how?_ _How_ to go about what she planned that evening? But every time she tried, she couldn’t get the words out. She’d just have to rely on the trusty books Petyr so generously provided, to guide her. 

The way Sansa saw it, the only thing worse would be if she _didn’t_ do it. She couldn’t spend another night tied up at his mercy. If this was a new level of hell, it was one where she could even the field, at least. 

“…another ship full of eager sailors came to port last night, the girls will be tired this morning.” Sansa caught, with interest, the end of whatever Ros was saying. 

“Ros?” she began, tentatively. 

“Mmm?” Ros replied. 

“Do you think you could… that is, if things turn really bad for me… could you smuggle me out of the keep? Out of King’s Landing, onto a ship?” 

Ros titled her head. “I could try. There are the sympathizers who’d like to see you returned to your throne. Or, others might be sufficiently bribed.” 

Those sympathizers again. Were they real? Or another of Ros’s fanciful ideals?

“Thank you,” Sansa replied. “It would help to know escape is there… if needed.” 

“Ros?” Sansa asked, thinking of something else. “Would you be able to send a raven to my sister for me? Petyr, _King_ Petyr, said that he’d allow us to communicate, but he’ll read our correspondence first, and I’d rather write to her privately.” 

“It’s not a bad idea, but didn’t he tell you?” Ros asked. “The King sent for your sister already. She’s travelling south, for the wedding.” 

“He… no.” _Was this a surprise for her? Or a threat?_

Of course Arya accepted, not knowing the danger. Or, more likely, knowing and believing she could be quick enough to avert it. Craving the adventure. 

Or, just maybe… wanting to be there to help her sister through the coming ordeal?

Sansa let Ros help her dress in pale lavender robes, simple, but sufficient, vowing to ask Petyr as soon as they were alone. Before departing, a knock sounded at her door and Sansa found a servant waiting, who placed a flat box in her hands. 

She thanked the carrier and sat down at her table to open it. 

Sansa blinked rapidly, as if to clear her eyes. 

Within, sat a silver collar with one enormous, flawless emerald its center. On either side, two silver mockingbirds flanked the rectangular stone. 

_“You’d look lovely in this tonight,”_ the note said.

Sansa nearly laughed out loud, knowing full well what the note really meant was, _“Be a good girl and wear this tonight.”_

Ros had no inhibitions about peeking over her shoulder to look. 

She giggled, “I told you.” 

“No,” Sansa said darkly. “He’s not a generous man. He wouldn’t give me anything unless he thought he was getting something back.” 

Which was fine. Petyr Baelish was going to get more than he bargained for that night. 

#

Sansa did as she was bid, quietly observing the machinations of court life throughout the day. In truth the politics intrigued her, and she looked forward to learning more. But at the moment, her mind was too preoccupied on the night’s activities to pay proper attention. 

King Petyr kept busy - only in the early evening could she confront him about Arya. 

His mouth twitched when she did. 

“Yes. I sent for your sister to attend our wedding. I had planned to tell you tonight, but it seems secrets are ill-kept with our mutual friend.”

The hair on Sansa’s neck rose. Did Petyr know the truth about Ros? Or did he maybe leak it to Ros on purpose, to see how she’d react?

He looked… not quite nervous, but not entirely relaxed as he whispered, “Does this make you happy, my lady?” 

It _did._

But Petyr didn’t understand. 

Sansa licked her lips, treading carefully. 

“Yes, Your Grace. It is a generous gift. But… there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. 

“It’s only temporary,” he shrugged. “Your maester can run things until her return.” Petyr titled his head, thoughtful, before his expression turned to one of amusement.

“Winterfell cannot be breached by an attack in the short time your sister will be gone. And even if she stayed away longer, even your maester could fend off any soldiers from your high walls. Is that what you’re worried about?”

Sansa shook her head. Of course Petyr always thought along the lines of battle. He didn’t understand, it wasn’t about an armed threat. It was simply that a Stark always had to be present in Winterfell. 

“I _do_ appreciate the gesture, it’s just…” she let her blue eyes widen with her plea, speaking the words she knew he didn’t want to hear. “What about Theon? Would you consider releasing him?” 

Theon was just as much a Stark as she was, but he was previously off the negotiating table. He wasn’t explicitly a prisoner in the Iron Islands… but he wasn’t free to move about either. 

Littlefinger let out one breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. He blinked slowly, and Sansa had the feeling he was sad. 

He paused, studying her, then admitted, “I had planned to release Theon as a wedding gift. You seem determined to root out all of my secrets. Once we are married. Regrettably, I cannot release him sooner.” 

“Please-” she began.

But he cut her off, reaffirming, “I’m afraid it’s out of the question. Once we are wed.” 

Sansa huffed through her nose. He didn’t trust her. Or Theon. Or both. 

“My lady,” Petyr said, as he bowed to kiss her hand. 

#

Sansa was waiting with her heart in her throat when her bedroom door creaked open, late that evening. 

Hair unbound, cascading down her back. Emerald necklace gleaming…

…and completely naked. Her arms rested lightly on the bed behind her in a manner to push out her breasts, in a manner of offering. 

She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears, threatening to give her away. Would he hear it too? 

Sansa wasn’t doing this because she _enjoyed_ it. Not at all. This was about _survival._

She hoped her blushes only made her more enticing, because she couldn’t stop them. 

_Be bold,_ she scolded herself. _Like the girls in the stories._

When Petyr set his eyes upon her and they widened, she _did_ feel bold. She watched his tongue slide along his lips, wetting them. Perhaps his mouth had grown too dry to speak.

No matter. It was her mouth that needed to take control. 

She swallowed. “I thought we might try something new,” she said, low and suggestive, batting her eyelashes and nervously curling her toes, her fingers. 

She wasn’t fooling anyone. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested. Wouldn’t take advantage of the opportunity. 

He was Petyr Baelish, after all. 

“And what might that be?” he asked, more gravel in his voice than usual. 

Sansa smiled sweetly. Had he grown stiff already? The men always did, in the books. 

She backed up, scooting onto the bed and swinging her legs up and to her side. Littlefinger’s eyes – wild, hungry – never left her. He stared as if he’d never get his fill and it was just as unsettling as the last night. 

Sansa crooked one finger in a _come here_ motion and was gratified when his feet seemed to move without consulting his mind. Petyr climbed onto the bed beside her and still never tore his gaze from her body, he was positively _riveted._

In truth, it made her feel desirable, beautiful. She imagined what he saw. Creamy skin, long legs. Flash of the silver collar above her breasts. Nipples _(gods dammit)_ now stiff and pointed. Lips red and swollen, already anticipating. 

Sansa took a deep breath.

 _If you want to seize power, keep going._

“I thought we might reverse our roles. From last night.” 

His green-gray eyes flashed again, and Sansa knew he badly wanted it. Wanted to feel her lips around him. Petyr’s eyes could never hide his desire. It was his weakness.

Or was _she_ his weakness? 

“I’ll tie you up, and you let my mouth do what it wants.” She bit her lip, drawing attention there. 

Petyr cocked a knowing smile. 

“You think I will allow the she-wolf who tried to stick a dagger in my heart tie me up?” 

_No, not really._

Licking her lips, Sansa tried her next tactic. 

“I thought we’d moved past that… misunderstanding.” (As if attempted kingslaying for believing him to have murdered her parents was all just a minor, everyday mix-up. No hard feelings between… whatever they were.)

“What if you just slipped your hands through the ropes and held on?” She lowered her head and looked up at him through her lashes. “I promise not to stop anything I’m doing… unless you let go.” 

Petyr’s tongue darted out once more. She imagined he was torn between wanting to feel her mouth on him and concern she might tear off his cock. 

But he was never a man swayed by the needs of the moment. Sansa switched tactics again, trying logic, and just a kernel of the truth. 

“There’s at least three white cloaks outside my door. If I try anything you don’t like, call them in. We’re going to have to… progress… to other things at some point and I’d rather do it at my own pace. Without you tying me down.”

Her pace for what she was about to do was ideally somewhere between _not going to happen_ and _never_ (at least, that’s what she angrily reminded the wild butterflies in her stomach that seemed to be fluttering almost _excitedly)._ But since Petyr would never allow that, at least the pacing of the act itself, as it occurred, would be in her control. 

Taking a chance, Sansa reached out and held Petyr’s hand. His eyes darkened at her touch, but he allowed her to guide him up to the rope. She raised his other hand and thread it through the loose circle. Petyr grabbed hold of a section, pulling it taut. 

Sansa’s pulse quickened, both fearing that he would stop her at any moment and fearing that he wouldn’t, and completely unable to sort out which terror she preferred. 

She backed up on the bed and immediately realized her giant mistake. She hadn’t asked him to remove his robes, and now if she started over, she’d break the moment. 

_Some seductress._

The only course of action was to continue on as if this were her plan. 

She parted Petyr’s long doublet, unhooking the last two clasps for further access, and tucked her fingers into the tops of his breeches. His jaw clenched in anticipation when she pulled downward, and he lifted slightly off the bed to help her with the task. 

Sansa looked down, eyes widening. He was already rock hard, and his cock twitched under her gaze. Without meaning to, she gave a small smile. 

She had seen a few examples from errant young boys running about, and from Petyr’s performers at their first dinner, but never this close. Not enough to give an informed opinion about Littlefinger’s cock. It looked sizable enough, standing at full attention from a patch of short, dark hair, but she couldn’t be sure. Considering the imminent insertion of its length down her throat, maybe a bit too big. Although, she supposed, anything might seem too big at the prospect of trying to fit it all in her mouth for the first time. And yet... seeing this intimate part of Petyr made the ache between her legs grow. 

Sansa placed her hands on either side of his inner thighs and Petyr rolled his hips, pulling at the ropes. 

She bit back a grin thinking, _how does it feel?_

After teasing him for a moment by inching her hands ever closer, she slowly, tentatively, wrapped her fingers along the base of his cock, and was rewarded to hear Petyr suck in his breath. 

As she began moving her hand up and down, she couldn’t help but to look at him, as if to say, _am I doing this right?_ And he nodded his approval, once, curt, unwilling or unable to say more. 

She sped up and saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped the rope harder. His eyes drifted shut and Sansa eased into a greater confidence. 

She wanted to taunt him further, make him ask for more the way he did to her, but she couldn’t manage it yet. Next time. (Gods, there would be a next time and many after, wouldn’t there?)

Besides, she wanted to catch him by surprise. 

Sansa licked her lips to wet them and bowed her head. Sticking out her tongue, she placed it firmly at the base of his shaft, and gave one slow, long lick up the entirety. Petyr’s hips bucked as she did, and she smiled, because it was a movement she recognized. 

Sansa repeated the motion, moving a little to the left and sending one long, slow lick up his cock to the top. This time, she circled the tip with her tongue and his cock twitched again, wanting more. Then, wrapping one hand around the base, Sansa began moving up and down, while her mouth placed playful, teasing licks to the head. 

Finally, steeling her courage, she opened wider, dipped her head lower, and closed her mouth over the first two inches. 

Above, Petyr gave a stifled moan and she heard something under his breath that might have been _fuck._ Encouraged, she sucked another inch or two lower, while still pumping her hand below. 

She felt the sudden pressure of Petyr’s hand on her head, threading fingers through her hair. 

Sansa immediately stopped and pushed herself up. 

The sudden absence of her mouth caused him to make a noise that sounded like a growl. 

“Your Grace,” she admonished, shaking her head and giving him a smile brimming with sugared spite. “You’re not supposed to let go.” 

For a torturous moment, he pinned her with his hard stare and she met it, trying not to let him see the weight of the moment. If she backed down now, he’d always have his way.

Reluctantly, Petyr brought his hands back to the ropes and wound them once between his fists. 

_Good boy,_ she thought. 

Her face must have said as much, and the look he gave her seemed to tell her he wouldn’t forget it. 

She widened her grin, allowing some more smugness to creep in. She _wasn’t_ enjoying herself, but Littlefinger was going to punish her anyway. Might as well earn it. 

With one more deep breath, Sansa returned her attention to his shaft, leaned forward, and swallowed as far down as she could.

Petyr pulled the ropes so hard she heard the wooden posts creak. It sent a thrilling, intoxicating pulse to her head, to wield this power over him, and she sucked with an enthusiasm that surprised her. A wicked, terrible voice whispered in her mind, telling her that she had secretly _wanted_ to feel the fullness of his cock in her mouth. 

After a moment, a tension began in Petyr’s body, a tightening. 

“San-” She couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like half her name wretched from his lips before he stopped himself, turning it into a hiss of breath between his teeth. The wood gave a popping noise as Petyr yanked at the ropes, and Sansa thought a piece may have split.

Hot ribbons of semen shot down her throat, startling her even as she mentally prepared for it. She swallowed all of him, thinking it wasn’t entirely bad. She’d heard accounts of how greatly the taste could vary – one book even claimed what a man ate could affect it, and Sansa pictured all the mint he chewed. Yes, mint, she told herself. That had to be the reason some _absurd_ part of her liked the taste of Petyr sliding down her throat. 

She felt both his hands stroking her head again and couldn’t say for sure when he’d put them there, lost in the moment as much as he. Sansa wiped her mouth, disentangled her hair, and flung off both his hands. 

But Petyr wasn’t having it. Sansa squealed as he grabbed her and lifted her up and against his chest. 

She felt its rapid rise and fall, felt him struggle to regain a normal breathing pattern. When he finally did, he said, “I think you should wear this collar every night. Only this. And be waiting for me when I arrive.”

Sansa lifted her chin, beaming with victorious pride. 

Then a dark thought passed through her mind, and the muscles in her face contorted into an absolutely _horrified_ frown. 

Sansa pushed herself up, turning to look at him. 

“Did you… give me this necklace knowing what it would inspire tonight? Knowing what I’d do?” 

“No, Lady Sansa,” he insisted, but his lip curled. 

Sansa’s mouth fell open. 

“I hoped,” he clarified. 

She slapped her hand against her forehead, frantically replaying all of her steps in her mind. 

“But… how could you know I wouldn’t refuse the necklace to spite you?”

Petyr shrugged, seeming to enjoy the torment. His face relaxed into a rare smile that touched his eyes. Did the mask slip, just a little? 

“I know you,” he whispered. “I know when you need to be tied down tightly. And when your ropes need a little slack.” 

She noticed he didn’t say, _and when you need to be free._

Sansa’s head spun. This was _her_ power play tonight, and he somehow managed to steal even that, outmaneuver her before she even began. 

“Ugh!” she tore at her hair. She _knew_ it, she even _said_ to Ros he expected something in return from his gift. Only, she’d been thinking more long term. She’d been thinking more abstract. 

She’d been wondering (not _hoping,_ merely speculating) if the gift was an attempt to earn her affection. 

The vexing way Petyr invaded her mind made her feel as if he’d already bedded her. _More_ taken than if he’d already bedded her. 

“Ugh!” Sansa repeated, pressing at his shoulders with a loud _smack._ She wanted to claw at him, tear him, push him away from the privacy, the sanctity of her thoughts. 

He clucked his tongue. “Striking your King is a punishable offense,” Petyr said, half-smirk belying the severity of his tone. “On your knees. _On all fours,”_ he corrected. 

Sansa groaned. Shook her head. Gradually, she complied, bringing herself onto her hands and knees on the bed beside him. The display only reflected the more disconcerting exposure of her mind, laid bare. 

She was locked away, under guard in his castle. She could run through every hall and never escape.

But the greater game played out in her mind. Racing down tunnels of desire she believed concealed, turning the hidden corner of a secret plan… only to mentally slam into Petyr waiting with some sardonic smirk, again and again and again. 

And feeling a mixture of awe, exhilaration, and an oddly arousing frustration each time she came up against his unyielding authority. 

When she was honest with herself, she went so far as to wonder - would she respect a man less if he couldn’t achieve the thorough and absolute infiltration Petyr did? 

It was twisted, contrary, that a sick part of her admired him for it. 

“Legs spread,” he reminded, bringing her out of her thoughts. With another moan of protest, she widened them, feeling the accompanying flush to her face deepen.

“What is it you really want?” Sansa asked, lifting her head. “If you can predict everything I’m going to do, what’s the point?”

“You give me too much credit. I didn’t know exactly what you planned for this evening – though I thank you very much.” 

Petyr wore a wolfish grin and Sansa thought their sigils were backwards. She, the gentle bird within his jaws, one bite and he’d snap her in two. He, the predator, stalking, hungry, unseen. 

“But I knew you’d come to the conclusion that taking an active role in what happens between us would be in your best interest.” 

“I don’t know everything,” he continued, softly, and Sansa once again felt like the mask slipped off, just a bit, giving way to something more genuine. “Your move at Stonehelm, for example. That was unexpected and _not_ appreciated.” 

“The North thanks you for such fine steel, such well-crafted helmets.” 

Petyr smacked her ass, hard enough to sting. Sansa yelped. She bit her lip to stifle a giggle, then buried her head in her shoulder to hide the grin that came anyway. 

“Daenerys left many friends, entire armies even, when she crossed the Narrow Sea,” Sansa reasoned. “I knew you’d have forged ties with some of them during your time there. The hard part was pinpointing the shipments.” 

_Which is where my spies were most helpful,_ Sansa thought. 

“Mm,” he said, placing his hands on her neck and lightly caressing down her back in a manner to make her tremble with small shivers. 

“And I did not expect you to try to murder me as I sat the Iron Throne. Tell me, were you planning that move since we last parted?” 

“I… no,” Sansa whispered. Unease coiled inside her stomach, talking about their past. How different things were, when she was just a silly girl and he a minor lord. And yet, how different they weren’t. The seeds of the games they played were planted then and there, in the dirt of Winterfell’s glass gardens. The otherworldly pull she felt to Littlefinger, that she couldn’t explain, it was there back then, and… had it really changed? The way the two of them would sense one another, move in unison, along a current the rest of the realm didn’t feel. 

Petyr moved his hands to her waist. He stroked down, toward her ass, as he whispered, “And I didn’t know, not for certain, if you’d still surrender to my control so fully, the way you did back then.” 

A strange and pleasurable sensation, like little sparks of fire, shot through Sansa’s chest. Her head titled back and her rear arched into his palm, an innate bowing to his touch.

There was an inevitability to the way his hands were always upon her. The way he knew at all times where she would be, or what she was thinking. It made her feel like Petyr’s possession… but also, like his to protect. She was shocked at a fierce, primal yearning uncurling within, to meet his guidance with her surrender. Her body bowed to it, her mind bent to it, her heart… _but, no._

Something lurched in the place where Sansa’s heart _should_ be. It couldn’t be her heart, she’d dismantled and packed up the pieces long ago. One, as a girl, when Littlefinger left her. Two more when Rob and Rickon died. A huge part when her parents were killed. The rest of it packaged away slowly, bit by bit, as she surveyed the raging tumult throughout the kingdoms. 

And even if it could be repaired, even if it existed in pieces, boxed away somewhere, Petyr Baelish was the last man in Westeros she would ever give it to. 

His fingers grazed across her sex. 

“Lord Baelish,” Sansa whispered, lost in the moment. 

His hand froze at her mistake, the same time her own ears caught it. Would he spank her for it?

“I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s alright,” he soothed. “In fact, I rather like it. When we’re alone together. You can call me Lord Baelish. It reminds me of… a time before.” 

“When we were innocent?” She meant, _when I was innocent,_ but he’d done worse things since then as well, much worse than her. 

Her question hung in the air for a moment.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” he said, rather abrupt. “Get some rest. You have a lot of learning to catch up on. Tomorrow’s council meeting is an early one.” 

_Always the teacher._ Sansa laid back on the bed, quickly pulling the covers over herself. She was confused about what just happened and even more so in trying to guess Petyr’s thoughts. She watched him reassemble his clothes, walk toward the door. 

Petyr paused in the doorway, his back to her. A dark shadow silhouetted in firelight. 

He turned his head only a fraction and whispered, “You can send a raven to Theon tomorrow. I will release him.”


	12. Wicked Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter before the wedding. I hope you enjoy the naughty parts.

“I said you could send one raven. Not two.” 

Petyr – Lord Baelish – whoever he was at the moment, had come to escort her that morning. Sansa was already up, dressed, and finished her letters. 

Her shoulders slumped, but she picked them right back up. “I need to send this one to Maester Luwin. To let him know what’s happening. Please.” 

Petyr held out his hand. “Let me see the contents.” 

“It needs to be sealed, from me,” she protested. 

“Then we’ll reseal it together.” 

Sansa hesitated. He raised his eyebrows. 

“Please. I swear to you, I swear it on my family, my honor, there is nothing in this letter other than plain information about Theon’s arrival in Winterfell.” 

And there wasn’t. But she needed him to _believe_ her, needed the autonomy to correspond. 

“Then why can’t I read it?” he asked, impatient. 

“Because. If we’re going to be married, we need to trust each other.” 

_Well, as much as she could trust the most duplicitous man in all the kingdoms, who kidnapped her and threatened to invade her lands if she didn’t marry him._

“Trust each other in these small ways,” Sansa amended. “If we’re to be man and wife.” 

Littlefinger wore his mask again, hard face of stone. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw his thumb rub against his fingers, debating. 

When he did come to a decision, he closed his eyes slowly, and sighed through his nose. “Just this once,” he said. 

Sansa could have kissed him. So she did. 

The move caught him unaware, but what was meant to be just a peck turned into something deeper when he swiftly took advantage of the moment to slide his tongue into her mouth, holding the back of her head so that she couldn’t pull away. 

The eager way he thread his fingers through her hair, the way he pressed his body against hers, conveyed a feeling to Sansa she couldn’t quite put her finger on. 

Vulnerability? Fear? Frustration? 

#

The King liked games. 

Over the course of the moon's cycle leading up to their wedding, Sansa watched, captivated, as he played them with his council. Pushing and testing to see what each member most wanted, and using that to his advantage, or playing it up against another’s desire. 

He liked their private games even more. 

Petyr enjoyed having Sansa lay prostrate, over his knees at regular intervals. Perhaps, for a week, every other evening before dinner. She’d have to lift her gown, drape herself over his lap, and confess any acts of disobedience. As if he were her septon or her father. 

_“And I’ll know if you lie,”_ he warned her, so Sansa didn’t dare leave anything out, no matter how minor. He’d spank her then, never as hard as the first time, though enough to leave her breathless and writhing and feeling chastised. 

_“Just to ensure you behave,”_ he’d tell her with a wicked grin. _“You’ll only earn the hairbrush again if you disobey me.”_

After, Lord Baelish (as she sometimes thought of him in private) would bring her up to sit in his lap and kiss her deeply, pushing her hips down, grinding his member up against her until he couldn’t wait any longer, and carried her over to the bed to more freely explore. 

Other times, after spanking her, he’d slide his fingers into her embarrassing wetness, stroking and probing until she came, still draped over his knees. 

Occasionally, he’d tease her sex mercilessly, fingers grazing so close but never actually thrusting. Then he’d tuck her into bed, forbidding her the pleasure of touching herself for relief. 

_“And I’ll know if you do,”_ he warned, and Sansa was sure he’d see through any lie. She’d fist her hands in frustration those nights, clench her legs in a futile attempt to relieve the ache, and drift off to bed with dreams so wicked she was afraid she’d accidentally come in her sleep. 

Waiting games were some of the worst, and they were frequent. 

Sansa never knew when Petyr would instruct her to remove her clothing, (except the emerald necklace), bend over the bed, and spread her legs to wait for him until he’d finished some meeting or other. 

She’d die a thousand times before he even arrived, knowing how exposed she was, wondering what he’d do when he entered her room. 

Sometimes he’d pour a goblet of wine, sit in the chair and just look at her until she’d nearly _scream_ from the tension -- but she never dared close her legs no matter how desperately she wanted to. She felt every inch of her skin alive under the weight of his stare, keenly aware of what her stance revealed. Her ears would prick with every soft rustling of his robes, wondering how long he’d make her wait. Minutes? An hour? What was he thinking as he sipped his Dornish Red and enjoyed the view she provided? 

Other times, Petyr would enter, and, moving faster than any man had right to, cross the room and grab the meat of her ass. He’d bury his tongue in her cunt before the door even fully closed. She’d always cry out too loudly, easily heard by half the guards in the hall. 

Once, she’d awaited his arrival as instructed – naked and spread, face down on the bed. Petyr came into her room and slid his fingers into her ready sex. Then he seemed to come to an idea and withdrew them, pulling back, up along the crease of her bottom. Sansa tried to press herself up when he circled her anus, but his free hand held her down, and he whispered threats of punishment with his belt if she didn’t relax. Slowly, he pushed his finger inside her, where no _honorable_ man’s finger should go, and a wave of confusion overtook her because the intrusion _hurt,_ but it also felt good. Everything about his probing was wrong, humiliating… and seemed to make her hotter anyway. 

She didn’t protest, much, when he took his free hand and played with her cunt, so that both her openings where filled by the time she writhed her sinful orgasm into his greedy hands.

Sansa was sure she was marrying the demon lord of the seven hells after that. 

Everything about Petyr seemed designed to lure her, pull her in. The tight way his robes clung to his slender waist. The dark, dramatic fullness of their length. His hands, masculine yet elegant, distractingly capable of so much pleasure. The graying of his hair, as well as his beard and moustache, lending him an aged appearance she didn’t want to admit turned her on. 

His voice, _gods_ his voice. 

The polite whisper with its rough edge, giving the feel of something rugged and wild beneath the civilized cloak. 

But most of all, his eyes, and his mind. 

Petyr’s eyes looked like tunnels to the depths of hell when they darkened, and seemed to hold an otherworldly assuredness, a quiet power that thrilled her. 

But, just as when she was a girl, his shrewd mind was the by far his most intriguing asset, the one that seemed to rope her in again and again, when she watched him outmaneuver someone at court, or quickly see three steps ahead to better strategize a proposal set forth by one of his own council. 

Observing him, the cunning mind wrapped in his desirous body, was like a heady drink that went right to her head, dizzying her. 

By the time their wedding neared, she sometimes failed to remember she was his prisoner. 

Petyr didn’t as often need to remind her, _“lift your bottom for me.”_ She’d arch for his hands without being told, seeking his touch, whether to caress or spank her. 

He didn’t need to raise her chin up with his fingers as frequently. Sansa’s swollen lips sometimes forgot, and in the heat of the moment, _sought_ Petyr’s mouth to kiss. 

At times when Sansa bent over, she leaned into the warmth of his firm hands holding her back, the… protection. 

His touch was a dizzying mix, churning in her head like the tumultuous waters where two rivers met. 

The despised violation of her enemy. But also, guidance, belonging. 

#

King Petyr arranged tourneys and hunts, balls and feasts upon his pleasure barges, to entertain the ever-growing swell of courtiers streaming into King’s Landing for the wedding. 

When the lutists and fiddlers played, Petyr lit fires at night, and he _danced._

_Life is not a song, sweetling,_ he’d told her, when she was just a girl. But it _was_ in those moments - albeit a twisted version. He morphed from ruthless captor to her Prince of Dragonflies then, except darker; because no proper, courtly man would hold his lady that close, or have his hands stray that far down her back, toward her rear. 

Or hold her so much tighter than decency dictated. So tight Sansa thought he feared she’d fly away. When the music swelled and the firelight played upon the shadows of his face, and Petyr ran his finger down her cheek with _that look_ in his eyes, she’d have lost her footing, if he hadn’t been holding her up and sweeping her across the floor. 

And sometimes, when Petyr came to her room at night with a bottle of Arbor Gold and taught her cyvasse (all the rage in Dorne, Petyr insisted), Sansa couldn’t say she didn’t enjoy the conversation, didn’t enjoy learning the game. 

#

A few nights before their wedding, he bid her come in unison with him, facing him. She straddled his leg, grinding against his thigh while his fingers teased her clitoris. At the same time, her own hands were upon him, stroking. 

Sansa arched into Petyr, shuddering her climax, when the groan tore from his lips. His mouth clamped down on hers and his arms wrapped around her, pulled her close with that hungry desperation. 

A sense of longing so powerful shot through Sansa that she almost forgot she wanted to return home, almost forgot home wasn’t King’s Landing. With Petyr.

Which was probably exactly what he wanted. 

Sweating and spent, she collapsed onto his chest, flush against the scar that ran from navel to collarbone. She could feel the race of his heart against hers. She nuzzled into Petyr’s neck, inhaling his masculine scent. 

“Lord Baelish…” she whispered, then immediately stopped her mouth by pursing her lips. 

_“Is this real?”_ she wanted to ask. She parted and licked dry lips, almost willing the courage to speak again. 

_“Is what we had when I was just a girl, real? Did you plan all these years to make me your bride because… because… you fell in love?”_

It was idiotic, and worse, dangerously foolish. But gods, as he held her, as his heart hammered in his chest so strongly she could sense every beat, hear it sync with her own, she almost believed it. 

#

“Lord Varys,” Sansa approached the bald man, who bowed at her approach. 

The wedding was only one day away. She needed to know. 

“Would you walk with me, please? I should like to speak to you about the King.” 

He titled his head in a show of intrigue, and paced himself beside her. 

“And what has our good King done today to warrant such a request?” 

Sansa took Varys a few steps deeper into the gardens, looking over her shoulder to ensure they were alone. 

“It’s not today. I want to know about the past. Why you agreed to become his Hand.” 

“I think we need to sit for this conversation,” he said, raising his arm to indicate a nearby wall of stone that would suffice. 

Sansa sat. Waited. 

“I did what I did for the good of the realm.” 

She sighed. Always the realm. 

As if reading her mind, Varys held out his hand in a motion to say _wait, let me explain._

“I’d been working with Littlefinger longer than you knew.” 

Resentment rose in Sansa at the confirmation of her suspicions, but she willed her face expressionless. 

“We both came to the conclusion that Daenerys would bring no good to the people of King’s Landing. Littlefinger began to suspect she would burn the city to the ground.” 

Sansa scoffed, “As if he really cares about the people or their buildings.” 

“No,” Varys agreed. “I can’t say he puts others before himself. He was planning on talking the throne from her anyway, I’d always known that. But it’s hard to for people to bow if they’re dead, after all. Not to mention, beginning a reign needing to rebuild from the rubble would put him in a financial deficit he’d rather avoid. Much as he thrives on chaos, he’s a master of coins first and foremost.” 

“So you see, our interests aligned, though perhaps for very different reasons,” Varys concluded. 

“Did you have anything to do with Daenerys’s death?” 

“No,” the eunuch replied. “Not even I know how he accomplished that.” 

“Why stay and serve if you despise him? It can’t just be because the ash had already fallen, and he’d rule best through rebuilding. That’s not enough. You can’t trust him and you know that. So why agree to be his Hand?”

“I have my reasons, but the one I can tell you is because… it was the only way you’d serve as Queen.” 

Sansa shook her head, disbelieving. 

“Littlefinger wanted you, and he’d see to it that you’d come to King’s Landing to rule by his side.” He gave a small shrug. “You, my lady, are the only thing that makes me trust King Baelish with the Iron Throne.” 

“But…” Sansa stammered. “But you said I served at his pleasure, just like you. I can’t… I have no sway over him. Littlefinger is going to do what he wants, I can’t stop him.” 

Lord Varys raised his eyebrows and gave her an appraising look that could have meant so many things. 

_Are you sure?_ Or, _For now._


	13. Like a Song

Never before had such a gown been fashioned. 

It was soft white, Sansa was sure. Yet when she turned a certain angle, it reflected the palest gray of seafoam. Another turn brought out a hint of frosty sage. As if the color of her wedding dress were a delicate, feminine nod to the sigil of House Baelish. 

Even more striking was the design, and there was nothing subtle there about who’s bride she would be. She now understood why Petyr, curiously, had insisted her hair be styled up.

The sheerest silk from Essos lined the entire back of the dress from waist to neck. Glittering across the translucent fabric, one large mockingbird fashioned from crystals or diamonds – Sansa wasn’t even certain – ran from the small of her back, up between her shoulder blades. 

On both shoulders, delicate white feathers covered the top of the cap sleeves, pointing softly outward. 

The crown, _her_ crown, (it seemed difficult to accept the fact) had to be woven into the hairstyle. It was nearly as understated at Petyr’s, the only difference a light etching of leaves across a small section in front. 

Their wedding felt utterly inescapable, already completed even, and she hadn’t yet left her room.

“How much longer?” Sansa asked, failing to keep the fear out of her voice. The day faded as she posed. A weaver and her apprentice, a sculptor and his, took furious sketches, grumbling all the while that it wasn’t enough time. Later, they’d complete King Baelish’s order for tapestries and statues composed in her likeness, to commemorate the crowing of the new Queen. 

Of their start of their rule. 

“It’s almost time,” Ros said. “Actually, I think that’s probably enough.” She dismissed the craftsmen on Sansa’s behalf, Sansa herself too nervous to do anything other than stare wide-eyed, like a doe, as the ceremony drew near. 

Alarmingly real, and yet, surreal. How did she get here? 

Sansa thought she knew what was happening the last five years, she’d even steered some of the major events in the realm, that couldn’t be disputed. But now it seemed as if she’d been blindfolded, spun around the forest and walked, unseeing, toward this place and time, this inevitability. Was there even a tangled forest, or just one singular path through the dense trees that Littlefinger had laid out? And at the end of the path… this outcome. 

For the twentieth time that day she wished her sister were next to her. Sansa wondered if Arya would even make it in time for the celebration that evening. 

She also wished her father were there to hold her arm. Varys would be standing in for Ned, leading her through the crowds. 

_Being handed over from one duplicitous man to another,_ she thought, wryly. 

But, a gnawing part of her also looked forward to leaving the audience behind her and (she grit her teeth to admit it, even in her mind) taking King Baelish’s arm. Despite everything, he made her feel protected. Well, maybe more… safe from the rest of the world, if not from _him._

All eyes would be focused on her today. Even in the Keep, Sansa heard the songs. As a child, she loved them; now she was one. And it wasn’t all pretty. 

The tavern ballad echoing across Flea Bottom told the tale of a powerful King who kidnapped the Northern Queen and nightly raped her, in shocking detail. That one caused an unpleasant shiver in Sansa. 

Another version spun a story of Sansa flinging herself at King Petyr’s feet and begging for pity on her, the North – which the merciful King so compassionately granted. That one made her want to empty the contents of her stomach. 

Sansa unquestioningly preferred the slow one, that sung of their meeting in highly romanticized, but at least equal, terms. 

She, the Queen in the North, upon seeing the handsome King, fell instantly in love and dropped her dagger to the floor; moving from single-minded vengeance to swooning passion. He, the King, upon laying eyes on the fierce beauty, immediately fell to his knees and professed his unending love, his desire to make her his Queen. 

Sansa was sure that song would be sung many times today. 

Each version conveniently forgot that she had no choice to marry King Baelish or he’d take her lands by force. And no one knew or cared to recall they’d met years before. 

“You are, without a doubt, the loveliest royal bride ever to grace King’s Landing.” Ros grinned, flicking back one of her errant curls from her forehead with a delicate hand. 

Sansa blinked. She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed that everyone left, and Varys now appeared in the doorway. He wore the darkest robes she'd seen him in yet - deep gray trimmed in black.

“Ready?” Ros asked.

Sansa wanted to laugh at the question. She’d never been less ready for anything in her life. 

#

“This way, Your Grace,” Varys instructed, already using her new title, which only made Sansa’s heart pound faster. 

The sun hung low in the sky, blue fading into orange. Torches were already lit. Though not yet necessary, she assumed it was in order to not disturb the ceremony as dusk fell. 

She kept her back stiff as wood, imagined her skin tough as steel, taking small steps to keep time with Varys’s unhurried pace. 

It wasn’t just the ceremony and prospect of a lifetime with Petyr Baelish that gave her butterflies. As she started to pass guests along their walk through the gardens _(where were they headed?)_ Sansa met the lingering eyes of the men and wondered -- who would be stripping her for the bedding? 

A thoroughly barbaric practice, Sansa thought. Though, she supposed it could be worse than just having lords and ladies _listen_ outside her and Petyr’s door that night. She’d heard tales of beddings requiring witnesses just the other side of a canopied bed. Or, in the rare case of reluctant couples, proving consummation in plain sight! She even heard of horsemen in Essos, making love in the open for the entire village to see. 

_Where were they headed?_ Much further and they’d topple into the sea. She could smell a hint of brackish water from here, floating above the sweet perfume of southern flora. The sun sunk a little further, the deepening orange heralding the beginning of twilight. Sansa’s hands grew clammy, knowing they neared the end of the walk. 

They turned, and, marching up a path, Sansa could see the bay on three sides of her now, so that the sunset reflected upon the waters. Thickening crowds of reverent guests flanked her left and right side. She heard a light breeze rustle the trees and the occasional gull cry, but the lords and ladies remained respectfully quiet -- other than admiring whispers of her loveliness, making her blush when they reached her ears. She searched, but did not see Arya anywhere.

Rounding a final corner, she spied the end of their journey – a ceremony set into one of the high courtyards overlooking Blackwater Bay.

And _Petyr._

He took her breath away. Sansa actually gasped. 

King Baelish waited at the end of the open path, dressed from head to toe in black. 

Behind him, the fiery orange of the setting sun beamed down like a crowning from the gods. It met the purple bruising of twilight, fanning out from his body like a cloak from the very firmament. 

The notion was much more poetic than practical, but hells, it was her wedding day; Sansa allowed herself some of her youthful romanticism. The image was also so alluring she’d have suspected Littlefinger conjured it from the sky, were it in any way possible. 

The only color on Petyr’s robes was the flash of silver-gray lining beneath, and a sliver of fabric poking out at the sleeves. His doublet was somehow fastened from within, there were no buckles, only one tight seem running down the length. His cloak was black, solid, and heavy-looking. The only other hints of color were his silver rings, crown, the mockingbird pin at his throat, and the green-gray of his eyes. 

Those eyes bore into hers, making her feel as they always did -- like he saw right under her gown, right under her skin, and to the hammering of her heart. At the same time, the nearer she walked, the more his eyes seem to brim with pride, matching the satisfied smile playing at his lips. 

Sansa couldn’t swear she didn’t share some of the same emotion. Maybe… a lot of it. 

_She desired him._ Gods, she desired him. 

Petyr wasn’t a tall man, and yet he gave the image of one. There was an aura about him that made it impossible for Sansa to tear her eyes away. 

_Oh fuck._

Was she… falling in love with Littlefinger again?

It was the all the heightened emotion surrounding her wedding day. 

Seeing him like this, knowing he’d bed her that night, the butterflies whipped themselves into a frenzy in her stomach. 

Oh, how Petyr _gloated_ when he took her hand from Varys. Little sparks ignited where he touched, and flew up her arm. 

They must have made a stunning couple because she heard appreciative murmurs from the guests behind her. 

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” 

The words rang in Sansa’s ears. 

She swallowed. Turned around. Tensed her shoulders. 

When the weight of Petyr’s cloak came upon them, they relaxed. She liked the way it felt, warm around her body. She liked the cover it gave from the prying eyes of so many upon her back. Subtly, she titled her head to breathe in the masculine scent of him lingering on the material, and reflexively gave a small smile. 

_Ugh,_ she was definitely losing her… _head? Heart?_

Sansa turned back and the High Septon wrapped her hand together with Petyr’s. 

After that, the ceremony became a haze. She struggled to follow the words of the Septon before giving up, focusing on the soft bay before her and the changing sky. Violent pink clouds began fading into deep blues. The glow of the firelight from the surrounding torches brightened. 

Fitting that they should marry in the mutable time between day and night, she thought. 

Throughout it all, Sansa swore she could _feel_ Petyr’s energy coming off him. Positively vainglorious and... happy? And still… tense. She detected something anxious underneath.

She was almost startled when it ended. 

“…Sansa of House Stark, and Petyr of House Baelish, are one heart, one flesh, one soul…”

She was his wife.

King Baelish turned Sansa toward him. Leaned forward. Coaxed her into a kiss that was not wedding-day chaste -- he couldn’t seem to resist slipping in his tongue into her mouth with a force bordering on indecent, and continuing longer than proper for the religious ceremony. 

But what could she do? He was the King. 

She was _his wife!_

Petyr released her. Pulled back just slightly. 

“I told you I don’t need shackles to possess you,” he whispered in her ear, toeing the line between teasing and domineering. 

There was a hint of the boy in the man, relishing his prize. Sansa felt a little giddy, hearing the applause, the cheers. And seeing the adoration, the pride, plain upon Petyr’s face. 

She laughed, and some of it was nervousness, but some of it was… happiness?

_Fuck._

_Yes, gods dammit._

Some of it was.

#

Sansa would have thought she’d gotten used to being wrong by now, but King Baelish continually surprised her. She’d assumed that being married would bring a measure of freedom. Instead, his arms drew her closer, more possessively than before. His hand more readily found the small of her back, leading her through a crowd. 

The more interesting change was Sansa relaxing into Petyr’s hold, _seeking_ it when it wasn’t there. Was it wedding day sentimentality? Was it the wine? It overflowed like no event before, and Sansa partook in the pleasure. 

“You know what they say, Your Grace. In victory you deserve a drink, in defeat you need it.” 

Sansa looked up to see Lord Tyrion, having travelled from Casterly Rock, taking the liberty of topping off her glass. 

_Which is this? she thought._ With Petyr, she could never tell. _Winning or losing?_

Tyrion’s perceptive eyes seemed to be wondering the same thing. Sansa could see herself through him – from sworn enemy of the crown to smiling bride. Was the transformation real? 

“Lord Tyrion,” Petyr said. “I do hope you’ll be staying in King’s Landing for awhile? I have some business to discuss.” 

“As long as the whores flow as freely as the wine,” Tyrion replied, quickly adding, “Forgive me, My Queen.” 

Sansa only giggled, feeling tipsy. 

“Although I owe gratitude for clemency to your new husband. We are blessed to have a king with such a forgiving nature.” 

All three of them knew very well Littlefinger was only a man who forgave as it suited him. It didn’t take a mastermind to figure out that he’d pardoned Tyrion for the murder of his father, and granted him Casterly Rock, to secure the clever man’s allegiance. 

The gods only knew how Petyr found the imp, in hiding. Or maybe he had placed him there all along. Maybe he’d even helped Tyrion kill his father. Who could say? 

With one quick bow, Tyrion departed. 

“How do you like the feast, sweetling?” Petyr leaned over and whispered into her ear. His breath on her neck made her tingle. Did she smile? Yes, she smiled. And then she laughed. 

Definitely tipsy. 

“I believe it’s the most magnificent celebration King’s Landing has ever… celebrated,” she proclaimed. Sansa laughed again, only a little ashamed at the way the wine slowed her wit. 

Green and gray banners billowed with a slight evening breeze. Candles covered every imaginable surface, along with flowers of every color – exotic ones Sansa couldn’t name with the most alluring fragrance, and roses by the bushel. At the center of their table, where Petyr and Sansa sat, a vase overflowed with blue, winter roses. Sansa had no idea how Petyr had gotten them there. 

Her breath hitched when Littlefinger pulled her to him, and his tongue pried her lips open with an authority that said, _mine._

_I am, aren’t I?_ her mind replied. _And you are mine?_ Even though they didn't say the old words in the godswood, she heard them. 

Petyr reached over to the vase and withdrew one stem from the others. He placed a blue rose in her hair, by her crown. As he lingered, toying with a lock of auburn, Sansa felt a pleasant daze. Was it the music? The wine? 

Petyr? 

She turned back to the guests and chuckled, watching the faces of the septas, who were watching the Dornishmen dance around their ladies (and sometimes each other) with a most immodest fervor. 

Petyr took her hand in his, gently. Sansa turned to meet his twinkling, green-gray eyes. 

Why was he always so hard to read? Need, yes, that was there plain enough. Petyr’s tongue ran along the bottom of his lip. 

_Fuck,_ she watched it too intensely, too desirous.

Was she falling in love? 

Sansa suddenly laughed again. And just as quickly, Petyr laughed with her. That easy laugh, low and true, with the smile that touched his eyes. She wasn’t even sure what they were both laughing at when Sansa leaned forward and kissed him again. 

She could feel the surprise in the initial hesitation of his tongue, but he quickly took over, meeting her, then overpowering her mouth with that force of his, making her melt into him. 

Sansa didn’t even care anymore. She welcomed it. She _liked_ it. 

She _loved_ it. 

_Gods, what was in this Dornish red?_

They both continued to smile as _he_ broke the kiss first. 

“My Queen,” Petyr said, handing her a goblet of wine. “This is a new side of you. I think I like you when you’re drunk.” 

“My King,” she replied, drinking another long sip. “I think I like you when I’m drunk.” 

_Did I really just say that?_

Petyr’s mouth twitched into a half-grin. 

“Don’t think to get so drunk you pass out and we forgo the bedding. I’m not above taking advantage of you in your sleep.” 

Sansa nearly spit out her wine, cheeks coloring. She knew he only said it to get a rise out of her, but… it worked. Their eyes locked again. 

“No, my lord… I mean, Your Grace, I mean… _Baelish.”_

She didn’t know why, but she said his surname only, a whispered prayer on her lips. Her eyelids fluttered closed at the end. 

She opened them. 

“No… I want to.” 

The blush rose in her cheeks and she looked down. 

How could it be after all they’d done together, that this was difficult to admit? Was it because she was really admitting something else? 

“Sansa,” he said her name, another whispered prayer, and hooked one finger under her chin to lift her head. Then his hands were upon her face, drawing her to him for another deep kiss. 

#

Time muted into a blissful daze of passing dishes or passing dancing partners. 

The crowd fell silent when Petyr presented Sansa with the first dessert – a thousand lemon cakes as she’d never seen them before. Miniature, iced, and placed together in the shape of a giant Mockingbird. 

Sansa just finished another dance when she spied her. 

“Arya!” she exclaimed, alcohol and giddiness making her louder than usual. 

Her sister stayed back, amongst a cluster of guests, and though she wore a grin, she watched Sansa intently. 

“Hello, Sansa.” 

Sansa rushed to her sister, crouching down to sweep the shorter girl into a hug. 

Arya pulled back, appraising her with sharp eyes, and Sansa had the momentary feeling of being the younger sister. 

“You look happy.”

It sounded… not as an accusation, but an interested evaluation. 

“I’m so happy you made it,” Sansa exclaimed, though a part of her brain registered that she skirted Arya’s… concern? “We have a lot to discuss. Tomorrow?”

“My Queen,” Gendry Waters greeted Sansa, towering beside Arya. Sansa smiled at him in return, glad for his presence. He was good for her sister. It made her happy to see him there. 

The musicians took up their instruments once more, drowning out any further attempt at conversation. An older, bearded man headed for Sansa, clearly intent upon asking for a dance. 

“Sansa,” her sister began, low and fast, to finish before someone swept her away. “The scouts reported…”

The music was too loud and Sansa’s attention drawn by the tall man bowing before her, requesting her hand. 

“I’ll be right back,” Sansa promised, squeezing her sister in a parting hug. She allowed the man to turn her awkwardly around the floor. He wasn’t a good dancer, but he seemed jovial, and kind. 

“I’m honored to have been invited to your wedding,” he said, when the song ended. “I would have thought King Baelish the type of man to hold a grudge, but it seems that he’s wise and benevolent.” 

Sansa snorted her laugh. 

“Why would the King hold a grudge against you, my lord?” 

“I’m a known sympathizer, Your Grace. There are many of us here tonight, who supported your cause, for Northern Independence. We did not believe you would willingly marry the King, but I can see now we are mistaken. I daresay, your love has mended the realm.” He chuckled at his own flowery speech, before clearing his throat and taking on a more serious tone. “We’ve moved past our differences. I’m just glad the King is able to do the same.” 

He kissed her hand in parting. 

Sansa stood, frozen, blinking. 

What was this man saying? Worse, what did it mean?

Sansa chewed her lip as she frowned. 

Did Petyr marry her to pacify these sympathizers? 

With a determined gait, she shouldered her way through the guests and back to their shared table. Petyr sat, speaking to some lord who took one look at Sansa’s scowling face and quickly stood. 

Sansa grabbed her goblet of wine, taking an impatient sip as the man scurried off. She licked her lips, pausing until they were alone. Petyr titled his head and waited. 

“Did you marry me to quiet those who supported the claim for Northern Independence?”

“No.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. 

Petyr shrugged. “You want me to be honest? It didn’t hurt. But I think you know a few dissidents wouldn’t sway me one way or the other. Not in something as important as the kingdoms-”

He reached out, took her hand. Stroking it, he continued, “-as important as you. As you’ve always been to me, Sansa. Since the day we met.” 

It was the way his words seemed to reach out and squeeze her heart that caused her to rip her hand from his grasp. 

_Too good. He’s too good at this._

Sansa stepped back, putting distance between them. 

She’d been avoiding the question the entire day. 

Not he. _She’d_ been reluctant to bring it up. 

“How did you kill Daenerys Targaryen?” 

Petyr slowly closed his eyes. 

He sighed through his nose. 

He opened his eyes. 

“I didn’t,” he whispered. “I simply arranged the execution through the Faceless Men. They’re quite capable of taking on another’s appearance, even someone smaller who could sneak through the window, into the Queen’s room… but strong and skilled enough to smother her with a pillow. There was no trace of poison, no sign of struggle. Faceless Men are capable of many things, but this was simple enough.” 

The confession was so underwhelming, Sansa immediately knew she was missing something _huge._

The horns of warning went off in her head again. A funny feeling riled in her stomach. 

Petyr hired Faceless Men. So what? 

Sansa scrambled to remember everything Arya had prattled on about when she spoke of wanting to join them. They were deadly assassins. 

_That makes sense. What else?_ What was she missing? 

They worshipped the Many-Faced God. Death. Which they dealt without judgement or mercy. To anyone who paid them. 

Paid them a lot, depending. Arya sought independence, to earn her way. And the more important the person, the higher the price. Assassination of a Queen like Daenerys would cost half the realm’s gold.

Suddenly, it was like one of those special vaults, requiring the turn of three keys to enter.

Sansa could practically hear each turn in her brain. 

_Click._

Petyr had paid an unthinkable sum of money to assassinate Queen Daenerys. 

_Click._

She was right all along. He didn’t have the gold to wage a long and difficult war to the North _and_ rebuild the kingdom at the same time.

_Click._

There was no army at Torrhen’s Square, poised to attack Winterfell. 

There was _no army at Torrhen’s Square!_

Arya’s unfinished words rang in her head. Sansa didn’t bother to let her continue, because she’d been too drunk, too happy, too easily interrupted. 

_The scouts reported…_ what? They’d seen no soldiers? No, not likely _none._ Perhaps they counted and found two thousand men? Two hundred? Certainly not twenty thousand. 

Oh, fuck. 

Sansa closed her eyes slowly, mirroring Petyr’s oft-assumed expression without realizing it. 

He _lied._ To bring her to King’s Landing. To marry her. 

Sansa’s stomach felt as if it had been filled with rocks as it dropped all the way to her feet. 

The goblet of wine she held fell from her hands, crashing to the ground with a thump. Had it been glass it would have shattered. 

She didn’t notice. She opened her eyes, staring wide at Petyr. His mouth twitched, his tongue ran over his lips. 

He knew she figured it out. 

Even now, they didn’t need words to communicate. 

“You don’t have the gold to sustain a long war against the North, do you?” Sansa demanded. “Your army can’t take Winterfell, as it stands.” 

Littlefinger held her eyes. 

“The outcome would be unknowable,” he allowed. 

_Oh, and you couldn’t have uncertainty._

“But,” Sansa said, unable to believe it still. “But Theon said you had twenty thousand men…” her voice trailed off. 

“Oh gods.” 

_No, no, no._

She’d been punched in the gut, she could scarcely breathe. 

“He… lied," Sansa whispered. "Betrayed us. You must have… tortured him or threatened him or something. Is Theon your man now?”

“More mine, than yours,” Petyr hedged, speaking low out of the side of his mouth. “However reluctantly.” 

Sansa gasped, slapping her hands to cover her mouth. 

_Oh gods, no._

“I sent the raven…” 

She shook her head as the terrible understanding, the dread, rose within. 

“I sent Theon to Winterfell. And I sent the raven to Maester Luwin handing the castle over to him. To _you._ By my own hand.” 

“And you,” Sansa accused, pointing. “You made me believe…” 

Her head clouded with conspiracies and wine, her face grew hot. 

“You knew I’d want Theon in Winterfell, just as you knew I’d sent him to the Iron Islands. Gods, I’m an _idiot._ You only pretended to not want him there, knowing I’d fight harder for it.” 

She broke into a mad laugh at her own stupidity. 

“It must have just been icing on the cake for me to send that letter to Maester Luwin, opening the gates for your pawn, ensuring he was placed just where you wanted him.”

Sansa felt a little more madness creep in, thoughts swirling. Her fingernails dug into her palms so hard she hoped they’d draw blood. Her face contorted in disgust.

“You haven't the gold for a prolonged Northern war! You moved us around like pawns instead, taking Winterfell _without raising a single sword.”_

_“With your gods damned trickery!”_

Petyr didn’t flinch from her anger, nor did his face fall in any manner of apology. He just sort of _took it,_ perhaps looking vaguely uncomfortable by the way he scrunched his lips.

“I could lay a claim to Winterfell by our marriage. Or through any children,” he pointed out.

Sansa threw her head back as she laughed. _Yes… but no._

“The North would never truly accept you and it would be distasteful to our supporters here. Not to mention Bran stands in your way, if he ever returns.” 

Petyr worked his jaw. His words came out clipped, terse. “I won’t apologize for uniting the kingdoms under my rule, Sansa. I’m not sorry I outmaneuvered you to have it my way. I’m only sorry you can never seem to accept it.” 

Petyr’s eyes softened, his hand raised slightly from his lap. “We could be happy together, if you’d just let us. We could… love.” 

Even he seemed to have trouble with the last word. 

“You didn’t outmaneuver me, you betrayed me. I could never love you, I hate you!” 

Gods, she sounded ridiculous. The same idiot she’d been at five and ten, when he strode into Winterfell under false pretenses of wanting to marry her the first time. 

_She fell for it again!_

Petyr pursed his lips. He didn’t like being denied. And what right did _he_ have for his eyes to glisten, pained?

“I could have lied to you.”

“You did! You want a reward for telling me the truth now, about your lies then?” She shook her head. “What does this mean for the North? How much of our agreement still stands?”

She hoped desperately his move was for leverage, an occupation for assurance, more than to fully conquer, to seize. 

He studied her. 

“We can discuss it tomorrow.” 

Sansa threw back her head. For a moment, rage discolored her vision and she blinked rapidly until it cleared. Hot anger raced through her veins, her blood burned with it. The hurt, the betrayal, made her feel as if he’d taken his catspaw dagger and plunged it into her heart. 

With total deceit, he took Winterfell and trapped her in King’s Landing. Forced her to be his wife.

_No…_

_Not yet._

Sansa stumbled, away from Petyr. 

She wasn’t too late. 

They hadn’t consummated their union. 

She took another step back, foot catching briefly on the hem of her gown… 

Looking back, Sansa wished she would have played the scenario entirely different. Controlled her emotions. Hidden the truth. She hadn’t been in King’s Landing enough to master lying the way Petyr did. 

Her eyes probably gave her away, darting left and right. Searching for escape. 

Petyr Baelish was not the sort of man not to notice. 

Sansa glimpsed his signal -- nothing more than a subtle nod to someone outside her view. 

And just like that, she was caught. 

“Let the bedding commence!” came the shout. 

A wave of male guests rushed toward her, surrounded her. Sansa shrieked. 

“Wait!” she cried. “He’s a liar!” 

No one heard, or cared. 

“The King lies!” she shouted again, then, groaning, realized she only sounded the fool. 

_She hated him._

But she just spent the last several hours appearing to all their guests as utterly enamored by her new husband. 

Sansa bat at the men, clawed even, but she was shoved along, unable to keep herself standing if it weren’t for the press of bodies pushing her. They hoisted her up and carried out of the gardens and into the Keep, all while she fruitlessly kicked and thrashed her arms in what seemed a hilarious display of nerves. The drunk men _laughed,_ echoing off the stone halls. Each had a riotous time with the anxious bride - shoving to grab an ankle, an arm, her waist, leading her deeper into the darkness of the Keep. 

From behind, she could hear a gaggle of women and their echoes, pulling Petyr along, undressing him. 

_The bastard._ She hated him so much, _it burned._

They reached the King’s room and strange hands began stripping her.

“Stop, wait!” Sansa plead, eyeing the threshold. She’d never even been in Petyr’s room before. 

But her cries only encouraged the men, assured them of her virtue – the chaste protests of the bashful maiden. 

Too many hands were upon her, making lewd japes, eyeing her lustily, _tearing_ at her dress. Sansa heard the rip in the haste to lift it from her flailing arms and over her shoulders. 

Were she not the Queen, Sansa would have feared someone would have _accidentally_ groped her amidst the chaos. 

She didn’t even care when she was bared before a dozen pairs of eyes, she was much more concerned with the fact that they had grabbed her once more, and were tossing her, without further ceremony, onto the bed where Petyr was being shoved fully naked from the other side. 

The men and women withdrew quickly, eager to listen outside their door. By the time Sansa scrambled to right herself, the room was nearly empty, the last of the guests retreating out the door and slamming it shut. 

Sansa’s eyes flashed to Petyr. 

His half-smirk said, _don’t do it._

She lunged, an attempt to bolt out of the bed. 

Littlefinger’s iron grip clamped down on her wrist so hard it hurt as he yanked her back. 

“Lie down, Sansa.” 

He growled the command low, so that the witnesses wouldn’t hear, but his tone of voice sent a shiver down her spine.


	14. The Gordian Knot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read tags - this is the dark and disturbing part. I love these two so much, I even had to step away when writing, take a walk. But, I also found it hot, because, well, it's complicated. Part of this fic came from wondering what would happen with ASOIAF-style bedding, where Sansa is super pissed and Petyr is, well, Petyr. But this _is_ a love story if you want to hang in there. It's just _their_ love story.

Time was marked by Sansa’s rapid heartbeats. 

One, her eyes flicked down to Petyr’s hand. Two, over to the door. 

Three, up to Petyr’s dark stare. 

He shook his head once, eyebrows raised. His fingers tightened around her wrist. 

Sansa couldn’t fight him off and besides, where would she go? Even if she made it out, the lords and ladies would only haul her back and possibly even hold her down or stay to watch. Either way, she’d become the laughingstock of the realm. 

Mentally, she knew it was hopeless. But her coiling muscles just couldn’t accept the truth. 

With a swift motion, Sansa pulled at her wrist and tried to tumble onto the floor, using the weight of her body to free herself. 

Not only did she not make it, Petyr seized her waist and tossed her down on the middle of the bed. He grabbed her arms and pinned them on either side of her head, pressing the entire naked length of his body against hers. 

The wooden bed creaked with the force, Sansa grunted, and her ears picked up the answering laugh of the nobles outside their door. 

_So they can hear even that,_ she thought with growing dread. 

Petyr whispered, “I regret there’s not more time-”

“Time for you to tell more lies?” 

“Sansa, you’re my _wife,”_ he said, quiet, but firm. 

Was that supposed to make what he did forgivable? 

She kept her ice stare unwavering, pleased that her voice remained even. 

“You betrayed me and I detest you.”

He bit his lip, and Sansa couldn’t tell if the look he gave was a challenge – _do you?_ Or a dismissal – _you’ll get over it._ Either way, his denial infuriated her. All the more because, she was loathe to admit, that with his hard body touching hers, every inch of her skin hummed, yearning. 

That strange tunneling that occurred when they were together, that faded out the rest of the world and enveloped only them – the one that seemed to heighten something in the space between, like the air before a storm… it was still there. She couldn’t make it _go away._

Only now her hatred, a burning, fiery thing, engulfed the perimeter. 

“The past is gone for good,” he whispered. “We can sit here mourning its departure or, prepare for the future. You, my love, are the future of House Baelish.” 

He wedged himself deeper between her legs and Sansa tried to wriggle her arms free. She sucked in her breath, feeling his need press against the join at her thighs. The tease of pressure compelled an ache for fulfillment, a _very_ unwelcome disregard to her rage. Her breasts rose, ready for his touch. As they did whenever he neared, clearly unaware that was no longer the desired response. 

“Don’t fight me, Sansa. You can’t win.” Leaning down, he kissed her mouth once, before she tore her head to the side, and he trailed kisses, imploringly, along her jawline, her cheek. 

“And we’ll _both_ lose if you continue.” 

Which would suit her just fine, if only it stopped the bedding, which it wouldn’t. Once put in motion, there was nothing that could stop it. But they were both fighting an oddly discreet, subdued battle – he, not eager to reveal a reluctant bride, she, not wanting to make a fool of herself for what would be utter folly in the end. 

Petyr brought his head to the tips of her breasts, kissing and licking with his tongue softly, so that when he took one peak between his teeth, nipping, it surprised her all the more. Sansa tried and failed to stifle a moan. His mouth and his cock, it was too much. Her sex relayed foolish, earnest messages to her brain… begging her to let Petyr stroke her until she became a spent and quivering mess in his arms.

Petyr pushed the tip of his cock into her. Or maybe… her hips bucked upwards. Or maybe both. She wasn’t sure, but it brought her to her senses. 

“No, Petyr, stop!” Sansa whispered, as loud as she dared. “Don’t. Not like this.” 

Petyr hissed a breath. 

But he stilled, only one inch inside her. 

Sansa felt like her heart would explode as she waited to see what he would do. 

Her sex gave an involuntary clench around his cock and Petyr’s eyes closed in something between ecstasy and misery. 

She tried to relax, but her walls reflexively squeezed _again_ and Petyr shuddered. 

For another unbearable moment, he remained still, neither pushing further inside her nor backing out. 

Then a grunt tore from his mouth as he wrenched himself from her core. 

Arms still pinned, Sansa panted in unison with Petyr, who gazed down with an unrestrained desire to devour her, if only she gave the _slightest_ nudge in that direction. 

They were frozen, hovering in momentary respite and indecision, panting, sweating.

Sansa could see Petyr’s dilemma though his eyes -- oddly enough, a skill she’d perfected watching him maneuver others in court. He wasn’t going to relinquish his kingly rights to solidify their union, just because she was angry that it took some manipulations to get there. But he also _wanted_ something... Her to want him in return?

_Was any of this real?_ Did he marry her to steal the North? Or did he want _her?_

Why did she even _care?_

Just as Sansa’s breathing slowed, matching Petyr’s, the lewd shouts outside the door grew once more. 

_“Fuck,”_ Petyr swore through gritted teeth, briefly squeezing his eyes shut. A snarl flashed over his face and his hands tightened around her wrists in what might have been a reflex to fist them. 

He suddenly flipped Sansa over and she yelped. 

Petyr used the strength of his body to keep her beneath him and transferred both her arms to his right hand. With his left, he pried her legs apart and quickly slipped two fingers inside her. Sansa stiffened, but before she could react further, he withdrew them. 

Petyr brought them up to her backside. 

Holding her down with one hand on both her wrists, he wedged his leg between hers, keeping them spread. Petyr inserted a finger inside her ass and Sansa flinched. But it didn’t hurt until he inserted the second. 

She gave a small groan as her body stretched to accommodate the intrusion, and more laughter from outside burned her ears. 

Infuriated at Petyr, at those awful lords and ladies, at the entire realm, Sansa clamped her mouth shut. She vowed to remain silent no matter _what_ happened that night. She wasn’t there to entertain the nobility. 

Silently, Sansa squirmed in an attempt to dislodge Petyr’s fingers, but couldn’t escape the insistent probing – in, out, in, out. 

Comprehension dawned on her the same time he removed his digits and placed the tip of his cock against her rear. 

It was like a hideous trick of magic. In less than twenty seconds Petyr used a slight-of-hand game meant to amuse children – one hand eliminating the fear of him taking her maidenhead, and the other quickly replacing it with the act of taking her backside instead. 

The crowd outside their door was the only thing that kept Sansa from shouting. 

“No,” she whisper-growled, putting into it all the ferocity from the now-lopsided crown on her head, right down to her toes. 

Petyr stopped. She could hear him breathing heavily behind her. She twisted her neck to see him. 

“I’ll gladly turn you over but, it’s your choice, Sansa,” he rasped. “We’re going to do this one way or another.” 

_By the gods, no._

They were always her choices, weren’t they? And they were always horrible. That’s how Petyr laid out the game. Bestowing little freedoms for her to do this, or that, but each option a win for him. 

“You promised you wouldn’t fuck me until I agreed.” 

Sansa didn’t know why she bothered pointing it out. Petyr certainly didn’t keep other promises. She wasn’t even sure why he hesitated in this one.

“The promise was not to deflower you until you agreed. And you claimed to understand the bedding was non-negotiable. Who’s breaking promises now, Sansa?”

Oh, how she wanted to shout. _That was different! Before you lied to me and took Winterfell!_

Petyr’s jaw worked, seeming to understand the raging storm in her head, without her having to say anything. 

“The nobles are just outside the door,” he reasoned, neither gently nor cruelly, just matter-of-fact. “Faking it isn’t an option for several reasons, not the least of which because you are a terrible liar. Nor do I trust you, not after trying to run away.”

_He_ didn’t trust _her?_

Petyr leaned down to her ear and whispered, “Sansa, you’re my _wife.”_

The word sent a convoluted mixture of emotions through her she didn’t know how to deal with. 

“We _will_ consummate our marriage tonight. One way or another. I much prefer the other, but… the choice is yours.” 

Crushing defeat weighed down on her as if it were a real thing, pressing upon her bones, sinking her into the bed. The King must bed the Queen. There wasn’t a way around it. 

Except the wicked one he was offering. 

_Seven hells,_ only in the domain of Petyr Baelish would her backside be a _merciful alternative._ He dealt a sort of ruthless kindness, a charity laced with cruelty. 

Would it have been worse if she had fallen into his arms, the besotted bride, only to learn months later of his betrayals? 

Yes. Sansa would rather face the truth. She just… wanted the truth to be something else.

She was a stupid girl who never learned. 

“Get on with it!” someone shouted from the other side of the door, and peels of laughter broke. 

Sansa ignored the drunken witnesses and listened to Petyr breathing as he waited, feeling the rise and fall of his warm body against hers. 

All else being equal, she would rather lay with him the proper way. Nothing panicked her more than the idea of him entering her _there_ … nothing except the fear of bearing Petyr’s child. 

_You, my love, are the future of House Baelish._

If he managed to put a baby in her that night… she absolutely couldn’t allow the opportunity. Not after what he’d done. 

In a confusing, circular thought pattern, she hated him _more_ for the choice… because he stole from her the opportunity to hate him _more_ by simply forcing her, by taking her maidenhead regardless of her protests. 

It made no sense, dizzied her, and she wasn’t surprised at all because everything with Petyr seemed to confound her. 

Sansa dropped her head and arched her bottom, certain he’d would understand the meaning. 

A pause, then he rubbed his length along her sex instead. 

“You said-”

“It will help ease into it. I don’t want to hurt you, Sansa.” 

Her eyes widened, incredulous at the last part. Right now she couldn’t even begin the lengthy dispute of that absurd declaration. 

Sansa turned her face back toward the pillow, trying not to wiggle when Petyr slid his cock back-and-forth against her cunt, because, _fuck the gods,_ it didn’t seem to matter what atrocious deception he performed to trap her, she was hard-pressed not to writhe whenever he touched her. 

The wetness pooling between her legs was a double-edged sword. It was plentiful enough to easily serve as he intended, but it was also a vexing indicator that her body responded to his, and she was sure they both knew it was more than a reflexive, knee-jerk reaction. 

Petyr pressed his tip against her rear. 

Sansa tensed. 

Nothing happened. 

Seconds crawled by.

“You understand this will hurt a little, no matter what I do?” 

It was a warning… with a hint of doubt buried within. A question of whether to continue. 

Did he want her to change her mind? Or did he seek some sort of acquiescence? 

She lay, tensed, unmoving. 

And still he hovered. 

They were at an impasse. 

And it wasn’t because Petyr was a good man at heart, or one who gave a fuck about subjugating anyone else’s dignity to suit his desires. 

But, Sansa realized, it was because he _wanted her to want him._ And she was only going to loathe him more than she already did. 

Like a game of cyvasse, Sansa could see how it would play out, what Petyr would ultimately decide. His way – then working quickly to persuade her to his side after. 

It was inevitable from the moment he signaled for the bedding to begin. 

But Blackwater Bay could come sweeping over King’s Landing before she made it easier for him. 

Whatever he sought from her, she knew she succeeded in denying him when he swore loudly enough to nearly reach the door. 

_“Dammit,_ Sansa!” he cursed, and she could feel his agitation in the way he jerked, pressing his upper body into the bed, once. 

She also knew it was time, by the renewed pressure against her. Even though she knew it was coming, she stiffened. 

“Relax,” he whispered. “It will hurt a lot less if you relax.” 

She wanted to say, _of course an unscrupulous brothel keep would know such things._ Or, _how many times have you been taken in such a manner to report on the specifics?_

But most of all, she wanted to deny him or anyone else the pleasure of her cries. She clamped her lips. Scowling. Bracing. 

The pain of his initial push took her breath away, and he’d only pushed his tip inside her. The pillow absorbed her muffled moan. 

Petyr pushed further.

Inch by _agonizing_ inch. 

A low rumble sounded in the back of her throat, quieted by the pillow once more. Her breathing sped. She wasn’t sure she could take it. 

It _hurt._

“Sansa, sweetling…” With a ragged breath he uttered the pet name that had no place there. She ignored him. 

_“Sansa,”_ Petyr groaned her name, a plea. 

She understood. He wanted her to cry out, to the ears of those beyond the door. The proof of consummation. Of him taking her maidenhead. 

_“Sansa!”_ he scolded, through clenched teeth. She could almost feel his exasperation at her stubbornness vibrate through her. 

She knew she shouldn’t be so stupid. She should let go. At least release a moan the pain inside begged her to. Provide everyone the show they were all here for. 

Only, she hated Petyr too much to give him satisfaction. She had lost _everything._ This seemed the only thing, the last thing, she could hold onto. 

Not for long. 

Petyr growled, wildly frustrated at her obstinance. It gave Sansa one last moment of triumph. 

Then he pushed the rest of the way into her. His full length. Hard. 

Sansa shrieked. 

If it caused the noblemen and women to laugh, or cheer, or applaud their King, she couldn’t hear it. She couldn’t hear anything. Everything faded away but the pain. 

She writhed, but there was no where to go. She groaned, but it did nothing to relieve the continuous agony of the length of Petyr’s cock violating her deepest core. 

He didn’t thrust again, but he didn’t back up either. Sansa wondered if the lack of motion was easier this way – giving her time to adjust; or harder – giving her no respite. 

And, if the latter, did some part of him purposefully let her suffer those consequences as a lesson, a penance? 

“Shh… Sansa, you have to relax,” his whisper seemed to reach her from far away, and she became aware of her own whimper-moan. She felt Petyr’s breath on her ear as he leaned down. “You’re so stubborn, Sansa, why are you so stubborn?” 

_Because you betrayed me. Why did you betray me?_

“I’ll go easy. Relax, Sansa, trust me. And it will feel better. Like before.” 

Sansa swallowed. He meant the time several weeks ago, when she came with his probing, but that was _one finger._

The last thing she ever planned to do after their wedding was trust Petyr Baelish. He wasn’t her husband, he was her adversary… a rival who was taking her, while she couldn’t do anything to stop him. 

Eventually, her muscles tired, and she did involuntary relax. The intensity of the pain subsided… less a stabbing and more a dull ache. 

Petyr pulled back. Trying to control her breathing, Sansa forced herself to relax a little more. Slowly, he inched his way in. She gasped, her breathing sped… but it didn’t hurt as much as before. With control, he slid halfway in, and then slowly back out again. 

Her cry was all he had wanted, and she’d given him that. And now her muffled moans, the unmistakable _smack_ of skin-on-skin, and the creaking of the bed. All confirmation of their union. 

That was all he wanted from her, wasn’t it? 

Why Petyr was delicately running his hands up her back, she didn’t know. He grazed his fingers along her neck, stroking in the manner he knew she liked. He paused in his thrusts and hunched, lowering to replace his hands with his mouth. He kissed the back of her neck, her shoulders. 

_Why in seven hells didn’t he just get it over with?_

She couldn’t understand him. On the one hand, he didn’t take her maidenhead (strictly speaking) when she asked him not to, and he would have been well within his rights to claim it. 

On the other, two dozen lords and ladies outside their door would declare they consummated their union anyway. 

Sansa guessed in some twisted way, they had. She wasn’t versed in the nuances of buggery verses proper beddings as consummation qualifiers.

Petyr leaned back and continued his caresses, distracting her from the pain, even as he resumed and deepened his thrusts. It was still there, but Sansa had a glimpse of what it would be like under different circumstances. It hurt… but there was an edge of pleasure she could almost reach. It didn’t go together, and yet it did, like a roughspun cloak, trimmed in soft fur. 

Sansa hated that she _wanted_ to reach for it. She felt the stirring of the familiar tingle, the growing throb in her clitoris, the need for touch. _His_ touch. 

Her hands twisted under Petyr’s grasp, and, with effort, she stilled them. Rebelliously, they wanted to turn toward his. To thread their fingers, joining together through this bewildering combination of pain and pleasure… or, more urgently, to guide his hand down to ease the desperate ache in her cunt. Of their own accord, her fingers twitched again, the unmet need to feel Petyr’s hand rub against her swollen sex more painful than his trusts. 

As his fingers traced lines down her shoulders, as he gently squeezed her arm, Sansa understood in a flash of insight what he had sought from her, before he pressed inside. He wanted her to see _Petyr._ The man who danced with her in firelit gardens, the man who wove roses in her hair, the man who restructured and bent the realm and all its players in order to bring her to him. He wanted her to see that this wasn’t the bedding he desired either. 

But she couldn’t. Because he wasn’t just Petyr, he was _King Baelish._ He lied and stole The North. All of his actions served another, selfish purpose having nothing to do with what she desired, or her people. And he could have stopped the bedding if he really wanted to. He was The King. But he wanted to irrefutably claim her, more than he wanted to let her go untaken and risk her chance of escape. 

“Just finish and be done with it.” 

Sansa shook her shoulders to throw off his hand. 

“Is that what you want?” Petyr asked, softly. 

_I want to go home. I want to execute you. I want your head on a spike. I want…_

_I want to not desire you._

_So badly fucking desire you._

“Yes.” 

She wished she could have gauged his reaction. She hoped it bruised his ego, at the very least. 

Sansa forced herself to relax again, breathing through the aching _fullness_ of it, as he continued his slow pace. When he came, he shuddered his orgasm quietly into her. No one needed his cries of passion, only hers. 

Of the thousand ways she pictured her wedding night, a bedding like _that_ was never a possibility. 

Petyr took her in his arms and turned her over. Sansa allowed him, wincing as the new position sent a wave of pain through her bottom before subsiding to a dull ache once more.

She looked at the door, now silent on the other side. It didn’t matter that her maidenhead was still intact. There would be no annulment. What could she claim? _No, it was really my arse?_ She’d be the laughingstock of the kingdoms. 

“Let me guess,” Sansa said, voice dripping malice. _“You’re not sorry you outmaneuvered me to have your way.”_

In reply he touched her core and Sansa jumped, but also _moaned._

“You’re soaked. Let me help you.” 

She nearly laughed at the foolish hope -- _no bruised ego for Petyr, then._

For a moment, his talented fingers stroked her aching folds, and while she couldn’t hide that she was drenched, she refused to mew again. 

“I don’t want you to touch me, Petyr, I don’t _want you."_

Something in her voice made him withdraw his hand as if it’d been burned.

He lifted himself up, and Sansa used the space to scoot out from under him and move away, drawing the bedding up around her. 

“I didn’t deflower you, Sansa,” he said, eyes keen, sharp. “I may have risked our marriage to give you a choice.” 

_Some choice._

“You didn’t take my maidenhead, but you took my kingdom! You took my freedom! You took my…”

_Don’t,_ she warned herself not to finish the thought. 

Sansa’s emotions knocked against one another, fighting to be the one to surface. Anger. Agony. Humiliation. Vengefulness. Crushing disappointment. 

Hurt. Did she let that one slip across her face? 

Petyr reached out his hand to cup her face, and she slapped it away. He reached out again and Sansa drew her hand back and smacked _his_ cheek so hard his head turned, and an angry red print shone, even in the dimness. 

He gave a slight shake of his head to clear it, and rolled back his shoulders. When he refocused on her, his expression said, _that’s enough._ He reached out a third time and she huffed, resigned to let him. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she protested. “A dozen lords and ladies can validate the claim.” 

Petyr ran his fingers along her cheek. 

“I won’t take you ever again, that way, or the other. Unless you allow it. We’ll return to the way we were before we were married. Until you want otherwise.” 

“And what if I never allow it?” she challenged, letting contempt float to the top. “You can get your fill with whores, but what about heirs?” 

When Petyr smirked it was a bitter one. 

“Then I will have no heirs. I have no taste for whores, Sansa. I thought you knew what I wanted?”


	15. And You by my Side

“I was wrong,” she said, brow furrowed. _So very wrong._

“No. You weren’t. I told you that first night in your room.” 

_You said many things… most of them lies._

“Every time I was faced with a decision, I closed my eyes and saw the same picture.” Petyr spoke in a whisper, his eyes glazed. 

“Whenever I considered an action, I asked myself, will this action help to make this picture a reality? Pull it out of my mind and into the world? And I only acted if the answer is yes.”

He reached, perhaps to caress a lock of her hair, but she pulled back before he could near her again. Whatever he was saying, she wouldn’t make it easier by allowing him the comfort of touching her. This time, Petyr withdrew, fisting the hand. He lowered it slowly back to his side, and she could tell he forced himself by the tension in his muscles. 

“A picture of me, on the Iron Throne. And you by my side.”

“Me by your _feet,”_ Sansa corrected, dryly, thinking of all the times he made her submit. One side of Petyr’s mouth lifted. 

Was he trying to say he _cared_ for her, loved her even, in his twisted way? Perhaps because he had won so thoroughly, he allowed the mask to slip. What more could she do, wedded, bedded, naked in his room? 

“And yet you betrayed me,” Sansa retorted. “How was kidnapping me the best way to accomplish your goal in the first place?” 

The muscles in his cheek twitched. He winced, as if pained to continue. “Would you have come to King’s Landing if I hadn’t?”

 _No,_ she thought. _And been safer for it._

“Sansa…” he whispered, leaning toward her again, to kiss her. His eyes brimmed with anguish, but it was impossible to tell what was true in the dimness, impossible to tell what was true in his haze of deception. 

Sansa held her hands against his chest to stop him.

“You’re a monster,” she declared, a reply to whatever hung in the air from his confession, unspoken, unasked.

He closed his eyes and kept them closed for several seconds. When he opened them, something was different. 

Petyr straightened. In a raspy whisper, he continued, “If you say we cannot lie together, then I will remain as celibate as a maester.” 

Sansa was actually inclined to believe his words. It wasn’t for the torment that had passed over his eyes, who could tell if he faked it? And it wasn’t because she thought Petyr would relinquish having heirs or having her, _oh no._

She believed Petyr meant it because he was arrogant enough to believe that he would eventually persuade her otherwise.

It didn’t matter. She was going to urge Ros again to find a way to smuggle her out of King’s Landing. Maybe she’d go all the way to The Wall. Maybe beyond. There had to be some civilized settlements there. Jon would help her. 

She only had to keep Littlefinger at bay until then. 

Sansa inwardly groaned at the agony. She never felt _less_ like playing the game. And more like her life depended on it. 

She would just have to shove her feelings into the deepest, darkest dungeon inside her. She wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t rage. Where had that gotten her? It wouldn’t help the North.

She certainly wouldn’t allow Petyr to manipulate her again. 

She was done with all that. 

_Think of home. Layer your heart with the ice glazing the castle stones in winter._

“Not entirely celibate though?” Sansa asked, removing any trace of emotion from her face. “When you say we’ll go back to the way we were… I suppose that means everything else is still on the table. Like before. Everything but fucking.” 

Petyr shrugged. “I’m no Holy Brother, Sansa. It’s a fair compromise.” 

Sansa grew quiet, contemplating her next words. The offer wasn’t terrible, considering she was now his wife, she belonged to him, and he didn’t need permission to take her nightly if he so chose. Where was the trick? Was it just that he thought he could eventually change her mind?

At the pause in their conversation, Petyr climbed off the bed. He crossed over to a curved chaise lounge in the middle of the room, where the lords and ladies had strewn his clothing in haste. Sansa sat up, only now taking stock of her surroundings. 

King Baelish had a dark, canopied bed, up two steps on a raised platform from the stone floor. The furnishings and upholstery were all deep shades of gray, black, and brown, with touches of orange and red here and there. But there were enough rugs and pillows scattered to give the room a warm feel. Two candelabras, nearly as tall as she, flanked the bed, providing flickering light. 

On one side of the room, heavy curtains hung over three large archways, to keep out the light of day. She could glimpse through the opening of one, a hint of latticework on a partition separating what she assumed a veranda, to dine, or take in the views of the city. 

On the other side, an adjoining room served as Petyr’s work area. It was too dark to make out more than a large desk edged with decorative metal. 

At the sound of a dagger being unsheathed, Sansa whipped her head toward Petyr. 

He’d found his catspaw under the pile of robes, and held it in his right hand as he walked over to the bed with a determined look on his face. 

Sansa gave a sharp intake of breath. 

_He’s going to kill me._

_All the guests heard our consummation, now he’s going to kill me and take Winterfell in my name. Payback for trying to assassinate him._

It was as if her ears had suddenly been plugged or her head plunged underwater. Her vision darkened around the edges, much like the time when Petyr had first tied her down and she panicked. Only now, nothing was bringing her back from the edge. She found it impossible to get air to reach her lungs. She was only vaguely aware that her wobbling legs found the floor on the other side of the bed, struggling to support her.

And then the world went black. 

#

Strong arms around her. The warmth of a man’s chest. 

“Petyr,” Sansa whispered. The arms tightened their hold in response. She nuzzled her face into his neck and curled her fingers around his bicep, feeling the rough patch of his sparse chest hair against her arm. 

For a moment there was no sense of time or place. Only…

“Petyr,” Sansa murmured, clutching wherever her fingers found purchase on his body. 

Then it all came rushing back. 

Their wedding. His betrayal. The nightmare of a bedding. 

Sansa’s eyes flew open. She pushed herself off his chest and scrambled to the bottom of the bed. 

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._

Fainting and whimpering in his arms, was _not_ a strong start to the game playing she intended. She was disgusted with herself. And going to have to improve. Fast. 

At least he didn’t plan on killing her. 

She could tell by the way he held up his hands and moved slowly, to show he meant no harm. If Petyr was offended that she thought he did, he didn’t show that either. 

He raised his eyebrows as if to ask, _are you okay?_

“I’m fine,” she snapped. Although she was in no way near it. 

Flashing a grimace, he sliced open the skin of his left forearm and let the blood drip onto the sheets. 

“Further proof of consummation. Even if I had you, you wouldn’t bleed.” 

Sansa frowned. 

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not uncommon for a woman to lose her maidenhead long before her first time. Some are even born without one. Usually it’s torn through riding or… other activities.” He rose, crossing to a dressing table along the wall and tossing the dagger on top. “You and I have been intimate enough that there’s little of yours left, if any.” 

“I don’t understand,” Sansa said, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. She climbed back to the top of the bed and pulled the covers over her. “How do you know this?”

Petyr picked up a length of cloth and wound it around his cut as a makeshift bandage. 

“When you promise a patron the brothel’s newest virgin, you have to be knowledgeable in all the outcomes. A woman won’t always bleed her first time.” 

Sansa sneered. 

“You’re just saying that so I don’t try to prove an unconsummated union through inspection.” 

“I assure you, I’m not. I’ve had my fingers in you deep enough to know you’ll bleed very little our first time, if at all.” He leaned back against the dressing table, nonchalant, arms resting on the ledge behind him. 

Sansa’s cheeks grew hot at his casual mention of being inside her, of his knowing her body better than she did. Her anger flared with it. 

_Raging will get you nowhere,_ she reminded herself. _Surely not out of here._

“If what you say is true, you risked little by giving me a choice.” 

“Perhaps. I can’t be certain. Would you rather I hadn’t?” 

“I’d rather you hadn’t touched me at all.” She said the words coldly, dispassionately. 

“Be reasonable,” he whispered the appeal, holding her gaze. “What would have been a reasonable alternative?”

“I… don’t know.” She wanted to argue that none of this would have been a question if he hadn’t betrayed her so astoundingly. But what was the point?

Yet she couldn’t hold her tongue. 

“You lied to me and you made me to lay with you, against my will.” 

Petyr studied her and she got that feeling again, like he was seeing through her very flesh. 

“I make you do many things against your will, Sansa. I’m not sure if you even know when you hate me for it because you like it.” 

Sansa glared. She couldn't stop the heat rising in her cheeks, but she refused to flinch. Even if there was a grain of truth…

“This was different.”

“Yes,” he said. “It was a bedding. Did you want me to re-order the rules and realm because we were at odds with one another, angry? I don’t know if you’ve noticed but we’re often at cross purposes.” 

He continued, “If I hadn’t caught your hand when we met, you might have slashed my throat. Not to mention, you’d be executed and the realm would be at war again. You tried to murder me.” 

Sansa knew what he was saying. _We’ve both done terrible things to each other._

But even if there was any validity to his argument, she couldn’t hear it. Because it was just that – an argument. An effort to sway her to his side. Through reason or emotion, he worked so seamlessly through the manipulations, she didn’t even think he was aware of it half the time. 

When she didn’t reply, he turned and picked up a thin robe. She watched as he shrugged into it, tying the side. She had no clothing in his room and guessed he wasn’t going to offer her the option of wearing anything to bed. 

“What did you do to Theon?” she ventured, afraid to hear the answer. “Is he… hurt?” 

Petyr flashed a grin she thought he meant as scornful or mocking, but it didn’t match the touch of grief in his eyes. It was the first time Sansa realized that it wasn’t just his falsely amused smiles that didn’t reach them, it was the same for other affected emotions as well. 

“I’m a monster, aren’t I? What do you think I did?”

Sansa chilled, imaging how he might have tortured Theon. 

“Or maybe I did nothing at all. He’s weak. You should learn to choose better allies.” 

Sansa took a deep breath. Their masks were sliding back into place. She could feel it. Only now she had a stronger one, thickened with layers of ice. 

She licked her lips and squared her shoulders. 

“Arya,” Sansa said, hoping to catch Petyr off-guard. 

He raised his eyebrows, intrigued. 

“Are you intending to keep her in King’s Landing?” _As a prisoner_ was implied. 

“I can’t let her return to Winterfell,” Petyr hedged. 

Sansa casually folded her legs under her and leaned back, feigning an ease she did not feel. “I will agree to return things to the way they were. I will join you in bed, as before-” Sansa bat her lashes, once, nothing too obvious, _“-willingly submitting._ But you must release Arya.” 

Petyr gave her a scrutinizing look that was both sly and as if he suspected something sly in her. 

“I will give her a ship. She can have three ships if she wants. But she must leave Westeros, for the time being.” 

“Leave?” Sansa asked. “And go where?”

“I will put her in charge of any endeavor she chooses. Buying weapons from the Free Cities. Exploring beyond the Slave Cities. Bringing back knowledge of battle tactics from the Iron Legions of New Ghis, I don’t care. But she must leave directly from King’s Landing, and she must do so within a fortnight.” 

Sansa’s mouth dropped. “She cannot possibly. Arya will need to return to Winterfell, to put her affairs in order and pack her things…”

Sansa shook her head. She was thinking of herself, not Arya. Arya would jump at the chance to leave at a moment’s notice. 

“And she can take the boy with her,” he added. “But you’ll need to convince her to go. You’ll need to convince her that nothing is… amiss. And, I mean no offense, my dear queen, but you’re still a terrible liar.” 

“Then be a better teacher,” Sansa replied. 

She mentally congratulated herself when Petyr’s lips scrunched, amused. 

She was back in the game, even if her heart wasn’t. 

Time to strike. 

“What about the North? What is your intention?” 

Casually, Petyr leaned back against the dresser once more. 

“Nothing. For now.” 

Sansa raised her chin. “And what of our agreement? The terms?”

“I can give you everything but the tax reduction.”

Raising her eyebrows in surprise at the generosity, Sansa asked, “How can I believe you?” 

Petyr drummed his fingers along the ledge. “Time.” 

_Liar._

Her cold blue eyes studied him. 

_Of course._ It didn’t matter what he gave the North, or not. Because it was all an illusion. The _illusion_ of freedom. When really, her kingdom was under his thumb, and he could press down at any time. 

“If we bring a representative here to serve on the council, why wouldn’t I just tell him - or her - the truth about the state of your coffers?” 

“Because your word against the evidence I could provide to the contrary wouldn’t suffice.” 

Sansa clenched her jaw. “You mean fabricate?” 

Petyr shrugged. “If war did break out, I can’t protect you. Not like I can now. This is the safest way, the safest _place_ for you. Besides, it’s not as dire as you believe. I didn’t say we’d lose against the North. I said the outcome would be unknown.”

Petyr rubbed the fingers of one hand. “Our gold and our armies grow every day. By the time your man – or woman – gets here, well. A lot can happen between now and then.”

Sansa frowned at the delay. “And how long until I can bring a Northerner to the small council?”

“We’ll see.” 

She folded her arms. “I want it decreed. I want to name the person and have the timeline announced.” 

For the first time since their wedding, the twinkle came back in Petyr’s eye. Her parry impressed or entertained him. 

“Done,” he agreed. 

“Oh, that’s _right,”_ Sansa said, as if she’d only just remembered something. “I forgot to mention. There’s a _timeline_ until I can join you in bed, as before.” 

There was nothing pleased about the curl in Petyr’s lips. Sansa marveled at how the man made a grin look sardonic. 

“And how long would that be, My Queen?” 

“Let’s start with, _when Arya is safely across the Narrow Sea,_ and go from there.” 

He only stared that hard gaze, green-gray eyes impossible to read. 

“And I want something to sleep in at night,” she added. 

#

Sansa woke the next morning, feeling Petyr’s arms tightly around her, his chest pressed to her back -- despite the fact that she’d fallen asleep as far away from him as she could get on their shared bed, exhausted, head heavy with wine. 

_I hate you,_ she thought, for the hundredth time. _King of Lies._

Eyes closed, she huffed through her nose and adjusted her head against the pillow. Absently, she ran her fingers over the top of the sheet, then pulled it to her. 

Suddenly, her eyes flew open. 

She realized, with a start, that she didn’t even _think_ about wiggling free from Petyr’s grasp. Didn’t consider it.

Because she knew he would just wake up and haul her back. He was probably already aware she was awake. Fighting him was pointless. 

It was the oddest thing. As if she stopped the thought _before_ it ever started. 

And that’s how Sansa finally knew the last two levels of hell. 

She would have to be _very_ careful, going forward. Petyr had crept into her mind, not just _knowing_ what she’d do, but subtly directing her thoughts and actions to the point of eradicating the very _creation_ of some. 

It was so obvious now, the final level, Sansa didn’t know how she missed it before.

 _Oh._

Oh, her mind flashed back to his words on their first night in her room, after she tried to slit his throat on the Iron Throne. 

_“There will be none of you left when I’m through. None of you I haven’t taken.”_

Her kingdom. Her freedom. Her hand in marriage. 

Her body, _the fifth level._

Now he mastered her mind, even steered her thoughts. _The sixth hell._

There was only one piece left of her that she could protect. One piece she would never allow him to have. He’d come so close at their wedding, she’d almost given it away herself.

She was a slow learner, but, thank the gods, she did learn. 

_No,_ she vowed. 

She might have to surrender to his whims again, until she could escape. 

But Petyr Baelish would never carry her to the seventh hell. 

The one where he’d claim her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am traveling a bit in late August and September so some chapters might be delayed.
> 
> Also, just a note that swooning seems a bit cheesy, but I'm a fainter, and that's pretty much what happens. You wake from a deep and instant slumber, and, for a moment, forget whatever terrible event just occurred. Almost as if... you've ever had a bad breakup from a long-term relationship, and some mornings you wake up forgetting... and then suddenly it hits you all at once, you remember it happened.


	16. Game of Masks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schemes and smut. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Taking a week or two break, as mentioned. This story is about two-thirds complete.

“What about Winterfell?” Arya asked, disbelieving. 

“Theon can manage,” Sansa said, sitting across from her sister in one of the guest chambers. “Winterfell is safe in his hands.” 

The words actually pained her chest. 

Sansa had stayed in King Petyr’s room for two days, claiming illness, refusing visitors. She and Petyr went over the plan multiple times, accounting for Arya’s possible replies.

She _had_ to convincingly lie. The less Arya knew, the safer she’d be. 

“Where would I go?” her sister asked, skeptical. But the spark of excitement gleamed in her eye. 

Sansa’s stomach turned as they talked. She’d done an exceptional job concealing her emotions from Petyr and focusing on her plan to escape, but she couldn’t hide her lack of appetite since the wedding. 

_“How will it look if you swoon in front of your sister?”_ Petyr had asked that morning.

He had a point. But Sansa didn’t like being proved wrong. 

King Petyr stood over Sansa now, persuading Arya to sail east. He placed his hands on Sansa’s shoulders, possessively. She congratulated herself in not flinching from his touch, she even leaned into it. She was becoming an excellent liar. 

_Unless._

_Was it easy with Petyr because her instinct wasn’t exactly… to recoil?_

He gently squeezed her shoulders, and she reminded herself that she wanted to smack away his hands, underneath the pretending. 

_“If you don’t eat,”_ he had said at breakfast that morning, pointing to the cold soup on the table, _“I will call in the guard and have them hold you while I force it down.”_

Sansa had only stared, unamused. He was bluffing. Petyr would detest making a spectacle of their discord. And the soup – liquified strawberries or beets – would permanently stain their clothes, the floor. He hated sloppy appearances. 

But King Baelish had pushed open their bedroom door and snapped twice to the white cloaks. 

_“Wait, no,”_ Sansa had protested, as she darted to one of the chairs. She took up the bowl and made herself to swallow the first spoonful. 

Gods, she _hated_ how he always got his way. 

Especially now, towering over her as they conspired against her sister. Sansa only wished she could see the look on Petyr’s face when she managed to escape. 

_“Promise me no harm will come to her,”_ Sansa said, before they left their room that morning. 

_“I told you. I’d never do anything to hurt you,”_ Petyr had sworn. 

Looking across at her sister now, Sansa thought, _more like she’s better leverage alive._

Petyr let his hands slide gently from her shoulders and began pacing Arya’s sunny room. It was another beautiful day, summer quickly arriving, as if mocking Sansa’s dark mood.

“I have considerable business across the Narrow Sea,” King Petyr explained. “We could discuss the possibilities this afternoon, if you like. Really, you’d be doing me a favor.” 

As he spoke, he parted the curtain and looked out the window, casually, standing behind Arya. 

“Who can I trust better than the sister of my queen?” he asked, turning back to the room and spreading his arms.

Arya turned to look at Petyr, then turned back around to Sansa, eyes cold, hard. 

“What about the scouts? They didn’t find twenty thousand men at Torrhen’s Square.” 

Petyr blinked rapidly, mouth parted in surprise, and Sansa could have done _flips._

_Yes, she knows all about your ruse. Didn’t plan for this bit of information, did you?_

But _she_ did. 

Sansa covered her smug smile as one of affection. 

“Yes, I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to tell you, but I didn’t know until you’d already left,” she lied, folding her hands in her lap. “Petyr withdrew his men from the North in a gesture of goodwill when our wedding was announced. There was no reason for us to be antagonistic any longer.” 

Unfortunately, instead of remaining shocked or provoked, Petyr’s eyes twinkled and his lips stifled a smirk as if to say, _that’s my girl._

Arya didn’t budge. 

And, astoundingly, foolishly, she didn’t flinch from speaking treason in front of The King. 

“He killed the Dragon Queen. He’s done dreadful things during the wars. You can’t trust him. No one can.” 

Sansa scrambled for a counter argument. Without knowing what she would reply, her mouth opened-

“You’re right,” Petyr said, voice melodic. “I have done things you can’t imagine in the name of the crown.” 

He paced as he spoke, making his way back around the room. 

“But look around you. Isn’t this better than the reign of Queen Daenerys would have been? Isn’t this more peaceful than the Baratheon rule? More prosperous than that of the Mad King?” 

He faced Arya now, standing next to Sansa again. 

“You’re right, Arya. No one can trust anyone in King’s Landing, least of all the King.” 

He reached out and draped one arm across Sansa’s shoulders. 

“No one except your sister.” 

It was such a dangerous play, Sansa couldn’t believe he made it. Admitting to Arya that he wasn’t trustworthy, confirming her suspicions. Her sister wasn’t trained in the capitol, but she was very good at spotting liars. Would she buy any of this? 

Arya stared at Littlefinger for a long time. Sansa felt the butterflies take wing when her sister’s eyes flicked to her. She _needed_ Arya to believe, she needed her to leave, to keep her safe. Sansa knew she looked pale, but that only confirmed the story of her recent sickness, right? 

And Petyr… what did Arya attempt to find in his face? 

Whatever it was, Sansa exhaled deeply when she replied. 

“Okay,” Arya said finally. “Three ships, and your best men to teach me how to sail them.” 

Littlefinger smiled. “Of course.” 

Of course. His own men would be needed to mind that she never sailed north.

#

One moon’s turn passed, and Petyr never touched her. He kept Sansa within the circle of his arms at night, but she had the requested shift to cover her. 

Outwardly, they seemed an exemplary royal couple. Sansa was becoming just as much a brilliant deceiver in public now too. 

Petyr picked right back up where he left off before they were married. Immersing Sansa in lessons of politics and intrigue at court. Spiriting her off on fanciful outings, like a picnic in the Kingswood or journeys to Hayford Castle. He staged evening plays with the best troupes of actors, segueing into feasts under the stars, where they’d mingle with highborn and low. Petyr never failed to easily maneuver throughout both, and Sansa hated to admit it, but his talent mesmerized her. In his silver crown, long, dark robes trailing, and courtiers vying for attention, he was every bit the dashing king. 

Sansa was always carefully watched, forbidden from sending ravens. But she had no inclination to do so. Releasing a note of Theon’s betrayal wasn’t enough to save the North, and might make matters worse if it incited conflict in Winterfell before they had a long-term strategy. 

When word from Arya reached her from across the Narrow Sea, Sansa worried that Littlefinger would press her to rejoin him, as before. But he didn’t. 

Sometimes, Sansa would look at Petyr and forget for a moment. Burning with hatred every hour of the day grew tiring… and maybe she fought a war with herself to hold onto it in the first place. 

There were days when Petyr flashed his smirk at her, that she wanted to tear him apart and throw the pieces in the bay. And there were days when his smile disarmed her, when she longed to press her lips to it and feel the rough scrape of his beard and moustache against her face.

Those times were much more dangerous. 

When he held her in bed, his hands strayed lower each night. And her breath would quicken. And she knew he could hear it.

#

“You have to help get me out of here. I can still trust you, right?” Sansa asked. 

At Ros’s hesitation, Sansa gasped. 

“Yes!” Ros quickly clarified. “Of course, you can still trust me. It’s just… you seemed so happy. For a time. I was hoping maybe you’d changed your mind. Come around again.”

Sansa looked horrified. 

“Is that what you think? Petyr is a dangerous man, I have to escape.” 

Ros shrugged. “There’s always gossip. The servants have noticed… they think that your bedding scared you away.” 

Sansa folded her arms. They weren’t _entirely_ wrong. What had they noticed? Clean sheets? 

Ros cleared her throat. “And I think the king loves you, he just…”

“Loves himself more?” Sansa asked. 

“…has as much trouble sorting out feelings as you do.” Ros replied. “If you don’t mind me saying,” she quickly added. 

A smile played at Ros’s lips, similar to the one that often danced on Littlefinger’s face. Ros had an amusement, an ease with the world, in a manner that reminded Sansa of Petyr.

When she was a girl, Sansa had been happy, at times, giddy even. But she couldn’t say she’d ever shared that same light-heartedness, maneuvering through life. She was always locked in her head, thoughts racing, plotting, planning. Petyr schemed, but seemed gifted with an ease that came from a confidence in knowing everything would work out in the end. 

The only time Sansa had been able to cease the endless chatter in her mind, the only time she’d been able to exhale and just _let go,_ had been at Petyr's side. 

She scowled. 

“I don’t care what King Petyr feels, or doesn’t.” 

_Is that really true?_ a voice in her head asked. 

Ros bit her lip. “I’d rather have had a full plan before telling you, but… I’ve learned of extensive tunnels beneath the Keep. I don’t yet know where they lead. It will take some time exploring to find the best way out. And once I do, we still need to get you passage on a ship somewhere.” 

Sansa’s eyes grew wide with hope. The first she’d had in a long time. 

“Don’t keep anything from me again,” she said, smiling and hugging her. 

_Tunnels._ It was a solid start to a plan. 

Now she just had to figure out how to get to them. Since the wedding, the kingsgaurd followed her more closely than ever, and Petyr slept beside her every night. She wouldn’t be able to simply slip away. 

#

“Lord Tyrion,” Sansa greeted the imp, finding him drinking in a sunny room adjacent to the castle library. 

_“Art and Architecture of the Red Keep,”_ Tyrion read aloud the title of the book she clutched. 

Sansa smiled. “I thought it would amuse the ladies of court to give a tour of the finer touches.” _Or find information about these secret passages,_ she thought. 

“How considerate,” Tyrion said. 

He indicated Sansa should sit, and she took the chair opposite him. He poured her a glass of wine and handed it to her. Sansa took a sip of the Dornish Strongwine.

“I admit you had me fooled at your wedding,” he began, and Sansa immediately put her glass down and her guard up. 

“I believed you had grown to truly love our dear King. But I’ve since come to see that was just a show for the nobility.” 

The reminder of how happy she’d been at their wedding, stung. 

“King Petyr is not… what he seems. I mean, of course I knew that, I just thought…” Sansa got a hold of her rambling, squared her shoulders. 

“You know he’s taken Winterfell?” 

“I do,” Tyrion replied. 

Sansa sat back, surprised. “He told you… I didn’t know how informed you were. In regards to his hold on the North.” 

“I was there when he took it,” Tyrion replied. 

Sansa blinked. 

“Where do you think I was hiding? I’ve been in the Iron Islands.” 

“You were there when Theon betrayed me?” Sansa gasped, covering her mouth. “Did he torture him?”

Tyrion took a slow sip of wine, contemplating his words. 

“No,” he replied. 

Immediately, Sansa’s anger flared. Theon had given up Winterfell without a fight. 

“The King _threatened_ him with torture if he didn’t comply-”

She knew it! Theon was weak, he couldn’t withstand any pain without folding.

“-with torture of _you.”_

Sansa snapped to attention, unsure she heard correctly. 

“I’m sorry?” 

Tyrion took another sip of wine. 

“I suppose there’s no harm in telling you, since you already know the worst of it.” 

He took a breath, and continued, “The king told Theon that he was going to seize you, first and foremost, before any war. Then he’d take Winterfell, even if it came to a long and bloody battle. It was up to Theon how the king would treat you, once he had you.” 

Tyrion put down his glass of wine, spread his hands in explaining. 

“If Theon didn’t send the false report and betray you, Littlefinger threatened your capture would result in horrors. Whipping you. Raping you. Eventually handing you over to his Kingsguard so that they could take turns. He might make you his Queen still, but in name only, to sire an heir. Your treatment would be abominable. On the other hand, if Theon did as the king asked and sent the raven… you’d go quietly, he’d seize Winterfell without bloodshed, and Petyr promised he would treat you gently, kindly, as his true and beloved Queen.”

Sansa’s mouth fell, shocked. 

“Of course, Theon had no way to trust the certainty of that claim, but he had no better option than to try. I’d like to think my presence helped persuade him in that regard. As a powerful witness and ally – providing I was pardoned, which seemed likely given my involvement in the first place – Theon had hope that I could be relied upon, which I gave him no cause to doubt.” 

Sansa sunk into her chair. 

_Tyrion, Varys, Theon._

_Unbelievable._

That was what Littlefinger did. Acquire assets. Bring people into his service by granting favors or applying pressure. 

With Tyrion, it was the indebtedness to his mercy, pure and simple. Pardoning the Lannister’s life to ensure his loyalty. 

With Varys, it was through logic; appealing to his reason, his allegiance to the greater good. 

With Theon… it seemed more complicated. Giving him the chance to be a hero, even if only he knew it, by averting a bloody battle. Perhaps even tempting his ego in ruling Winterfell. But mostly, pulling his heartstrings for… her. Threatening, intimidating, to guarantee surrender. 

Inwardly groaning, Sansa realized she didn’t look down on Theon for any weakness. What he did was arguably noble. 

But _she._ She was just like the rest of them -- another pawn Petyr acquired. And she’d been the most pitiful of all. All he needed to do to win her to his side was bring her to his bed. Put his tongue between her legs, and she’d given up her kingdom. 

_Stupid, stupid girl._

Sansa let her head drop into her hands. 

#

Another moon’s turn passed, and Sansa felt Petyr’s patience wearing thin. When he helped her into a cape on an usually cold spring morning, his fingers lingered too long on the back of her neck. And she mistakenly arched into them, before she caught the slip. 

_It’s… more believable this way,_ she told herself after. _The best lies contain a grain of truth._

When Petyr caught her gazing as he undressed one evening, he grinned wickedly. Sansa turned crimson, and then her anger only deepened the color. 

The weight of Petyr’s stare as his eyes followed her across the Great Hall caused a fluttery sensation in her stomach, she could never quiet it. He was always, always _looking_ at her. Inescapably. 

Sansa knew her time was running out when Petyr began to purposefully hold her close during informal court dinners. She was forced to play along, remain pressed against his body, smile as he stroked her hand, or ran his fingers through her hair. 

After months of pretending – one mask at court, one with Petyr, another she wore even when alone - the masks she wore started to blur, so that Sansa had trouble telling them apart, knowing what was real. 

Then one night the _bastard_ kissed her in front of several lords. Heart racing, she had no choice but to kiss him back, and a soft moan escaped her lips. 

When Petyr pulled away, whatever he found in her kiss or her face, caused his eyes to pin hers with triumph. 

#

“It’s your move.” Petyr said, the following evening. 

Sansa stared into her wineglass. 

“Sansa. It’s your move.” 

“Hm?” she asked, then saw the cyvasse board before her. “Oh. Yes.” 

“You seem… tense.” Petyr whispered. 

“Am I?” Sansa asked. 

She was. On the last turn, she’d knocked over her dragon. 

Ros had begun narrowing down ships that might be able to carry her out of King’s Landing. Spring storms and melting ice floes would make a trip through the Bay of Seals too treacherous, ruling out Eastwatch. But Sansa felt confident that if she could make it to White Harbor, and with a disguise and skilled guard, she could make it up to Castle Black by land. 

“Yes.” 

There was suspicion in his tone. 

“It’s the wine,” Sansa lied. They’d been drinking together in an upper chamber of the Keep, beside a veranda overlooking Blackwater Bay. Attempting to play a game, but she’d been preoccupied. 

“Such a lovely bottle of Arbor Gold,” Sansa replied. “What’s the occasion?” 

Petyr paused. His thumb ran over his lower lip. 

“You’re joining me in bed tonight. As before.” 

Sansa nearly spit out her wine. 

“I… what? No.” 

Clearly, he’d just come to the decision. _Did he suspect that she planned on stringing him along forever? Until she could escape?_

“Arya’s been safely across the Narrow Sea for weeks. My queen, I’m beginning to suppose ignoble behavior on your part. That the daughter of Ned Stark didn’t inherit his sense of honor when it came to keeping one’s word.” 

_Yes. Yes he did suspect._

Sansa sneered. 

“I guess I learned it from you.” 

_Stupid, stupid thing to say! You’re just admitting he’s right!_

Gods, why did he provoke her so, that she could never hold her tongue? 

Petyr’s tongue darted out once as he shook his head. 

Something was building in the air, a tension that wasn’t from her nerves over the escape plan. 

Littlefinger stood, still holding his wine, and crossed over to where Sansa sat. She turned toward the windows. He took her chin between his fingers and turned her head up to look at him, as he so often did before. 

Even though her pulse began to race, Sansa flashed a scowl that said, _I am not amused._

Petyr softly trailed his hand down to the join between her neck and shoulder and then held her there, squeezing with authority. Sansa shuddered.

The small one, that meant, _pleasure._

“You’re being ridiculous,” she said, in her haughtiest voice. She stood and pushed past him. “I’m going to bed.” 

Sansa could feel Petyr’s stare at her back as she left. 

She thought she heard the clink of his glass on the table, but she kept walking. 

Halfway down the hall, she heard footsteps behind her. 

She gulped. Her breathing sped. 

Her heart seized when she turned and saw him. That single-minded look in his eyes. 

Sansa turned back around and walked faster down the hall. 

She heard Petyr do the same. 

Like a predator, she felt him behind her, gaining. 

She quickened her pace. 

He matched it. 

Her blood began pumping. 

_Walk or run? Which was better?_

Petyr was getting too close, maybe ten paces behind her. 

Sansa picked up her skirts and broke into a run, torches passing in a blur. 

In seconds, Petyr caught from behind, nearly picking her off the ground. 

“Stop it, let me go!” she screamed, kicking her legs. Her heart was pounding with a strange sort of excited fear. 

He slammed her against the wall. Sansa squirmed, Petyr couldn’t get more than her right arm pinned above her head. 

“Stop it, Petyr, stop it!” 

She was terrified of what he’d do, but mostly… terrified that it might feel good. 

With her left hand she grabbed for his, but couldn’t force him to halt its downward progress. They were matched in height, Sansa maybe even had an inch on him, but she always lost the battle when it came to strength. Petyr kept his body close, containing her with the force of his chest, legs. 

_“Stop fighting me, Sansa,”_ he ordered, but she continued to squirm.

She caught his masculine scent, she needed to get away from it… 

Petyr pulled fistfuls of her skirts, lifting them until he could reach up and under her gown.

Sansa felt his hand and against her thigh, creeping up to the join between her legs… 

_“Stop,”_ she moaned, with little force behind it. 

Petyr’s hand met with her small clothes.

His smirk was terribly smug when he found they were already damp. 

Sansa whimpered at his touch, even through the fabric. 

_She knew it. She should have never let him get this close._

When he slipped his fingers inside, her hips rolled and her eyes closed. 

_Why did her body seem to crave this?_

She had nowhere to go when he leaned down and pried her lips open for his kiss. 

_The further he went, the harder it would be to stop him._

She tore her head to the side and pushed at him with her free hand. 

“I’m not going to fuck you, Sansa,” he whispered in her ear, an attempt to calm her. He curled his fingers inside her. “But you’re not going to deny me what’s mine. Not any longer.” 

She kneed his legs, trying to break his stance. 

“That was the deal.” 

Petyr withdrew his fingers and lifted her up and into his arms, straddling his waist. 

“Let go!” Sansa yelled, but he only carried her toward their bedroom.

Sansa smacked his shoulders to free herself, then altered course, groaning and grinding her hips into him. 

Broken thoughts of _need_ and _now_ cried in her mind, racing alongside _hate_ and _liar._

The desires jumbled, so that at times she was tightening her legs around his waist while also yelling for him to _put me down!_

Petyr kept walking, until he reached their bedroom door. He carried Sansa inside, and kicked it shut behind him. 

The hallway fell quiet once more. 

From the end of it, Varys, having unwittingly caught the scene, rolled his eyes. 

#

Petyr tossed Sansa onto the bed. There was no time for him to remove his clothes and no way for him do so with Sansa trashing against him. 

_“Stop fighting me, Sansa,”_ he ordered again. 

When he pushed her down to kiss her, Sansa kissed him back, and her struggles briefly subsided. Not because it felt good, the press of his hot mouth to hers -- hungry, nibbling her lip and diving in deep with his tongue. Not because she _wanted_ to kiss him. 

_Because I need him to act like I want him, if I’m to escape,_ she told herself. 

He lifted her gown, clearing her hips so that it stayed raised. 

_No, no, no. He stole the North,_ a voice reminded. 

“Stop it, Petyr!” she cried, pounding him with her fists. 

He managed to yank down her small clothes and, even though she kicked, remove them completely. 

The lack of protection made her heart race. She also felt a gathering wetness between her legs. They were spread and slightly bent, in an effort to push herself up. 

Petyr took his cupped hand and, to her shock, firmly spanked her cunt.

Sansa gasped. 

There was something commanding it that said, _do as I say, I’m in control._

There was something possessive in it that said, _this belongs to me._

There was something profoundly intimate in it that said, _I want to give you pleasure._

Her gasp was one of unmistakable arousal. She immediately stilled. 

Petyr kept his hand there, cupping her mound like he owned it, like he held all of her being in the palm of his hand. 

Sansa shuddered a breath. Looked up to meet his gaze. 

His eyes were aglow, _dancing_ with mischief. 

He cocked a diabolical smirk. 

Petyr drew back and smacked her again with a cupping motion, just hard enough to surprise her, just hard enough to toe the line between pleasure and pain. 

Sansa moaned, a sparking sensation shot through her chest. 

Incapable of forming a coherent thought, she stared wide-eyed at Petyr. Scared and excited. Breath hitched. 

He smacked her a third time and kept his hand pressed firmly to her, cupping her, almost lifting her bottom off the bed with it. 

The power of the act seemed to connect desire from her sex to her heart to her head, the will to fight abandoned as Sansa tried to make sense of her emotions. 

Petyr slid his fingers into her with ease. 

_“Yes, please,”_ she moaned, before she could stop the words. Because, _fuck,_ it felt good. 

_It’s more convincing this way,_ she told herself. _You’re only acting like you enjoy it._

But even she knew she was lying, before she gave herself over to the bliss of his fingers thrusting inside her. 

Petyr fell, half on top, half beside Sansa. He kissed her like he was going to consume her, pulling back only to breathe, but keeping so close as to take in her breath. He never stopped his attentions with his fingers, circling her clit in a way that made her body move on its own, as if by his command.

It’d been so long, Sansa had forgotten how talented he was. How he made her feel like nothing else in the realm mattered, how she could die happy under his touch if the world ended right then. 

She thought she _would_ die if he didn’t continue. 

_“Please, Petyr,”_ Sansa begged, forgetting to care if it gratified his ego. _“Please, don’t stop.”_

In a shamefully short time, he brought her to climax. Sansa shook _violently._ Petyr pressed his mouth to hers when she came, forcing her to cry her orgasm into it, as if he drank it, swallowed it, swallowed all of her and took her inside him. 

_It’s yours,_ Sansa thought wildly, at the height of ecstasy. _Take all of me, Petyr._

As she came down from her high, Sansa realized her arms were encircling, squeezing Petyr. She was still kissing his mouth, running her lips across the scruff of his beard, just to feel the rough pleasure once more. Her hands reached up, threading his short ash-and-black hair, clenching fistfuls of it, and pulling his head to her. 

Wanting him, wanting all of him. 

_Seven hells._

That was the flaw in coating her resolve in layers of ice. 

Petyr Baelish always found a way to melt it. 

As her breathing slowed, Sansa’s arms slackened and she turned her head to the pillow, utterly spent. Petyr lifted himself, she heard him climb out of the bed. 

_It was only a one-time slip up,_ she told herself. _I will fight him off tomorrow. Or I will find a way to avoid him. Claim illness or my moon blood._

_I haven’t forgotten what you’ve done. The North remembers._

She felt so tired. As if she’d been holding onto something for so long and, having finally been released, the exhaustion consumed her. Her eyelids dipped close. She could go to sleep right now. Maybe she would. 

Sansa heard the bedroom door creak open. Petyr’s soft rasp float across the room. He must have been speaking to one of the guards. 

“Send word canceling all my engagements and have the servants deliver our meals here,” he ordered. 

“The Queen and I won’t be leaving our room tomorrow.”


	17. Girl on the Ramparts - Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a quiet, more intimate chapter, but there's a left-field kink in here. I've been considering Petyr's quote about his brothels: "desires that didn't even exist until we invented them," and tried to write something that he might have created or popularized. 
> 
> I had to split this chapter in two parts.
> 
> Also, there's a few more quiet chapters ahead, with smut and dialogue, but there will be changes coming soon! Several characters have their own goals.

It was as if Petyr had been waiting for Sansa to wake. Closely pressed up behind her, just as they lain so many nights before. 

Only now his hand was sliding down between her legs, with no sign of stopping. 

Only now she could feel his erection, firm against her bare ass. 

She was still in yesterday’s gown, and it was still bunched around her hips. 

Compounding the immediate problem, Sansa was _flushed_ with arousal. The moment Petyr touched her, the evidence would be plain upon his wet fingers. 

It happened sometimes when she slept. Dreams she could not control, leading to a state of wakefulness as if she’d just tumbled abed with, well… in the past it was a gallant, unknown knight. But now it was Petyr who haunted the shameful fantasies. 

Sansa knew men woke, hard, ready to take their pleasure – just as she felt from Littlefinger now. But she didn’t know if other women had dreams like hers. How could she ask them? Their content made her feel unladylike, too wanton. And yet the lady in her found the idea of intimacy first thing in the morning embarrassing. Hair disheveled. Breath stale. Body warm with sweat. 

Those were the types of thoughts looping in her head. She’d forgotten Petyr didn’t have such a problem. 

His hand touched her mound and Sansa grabbed it, stopping him. 

“Move your hands,” he whispered in her ear, a voice that was somehow both silk and steel. 

She froze, that peculiar feeling twisting inside. Petyr’s demands were like two sides of the same coin. As if the former Master of Coin dealt a special silver just for her. On one side, his irrefutable commands enraged her. On the other, they aroused her. 

Sansa wasn’t sure which way the coin would land this time, until he spoke again. 

“Sansa. Do as you’re told.” 

His voice carried with it the warning of punishment, of that fiendish hairbrush. 

She let go of his hands. 

“Good girl,” he rasped, and she could hear the smile in his voice, hear that he knew very well how degrading those words were. “Raise them up. Onto the pillow. Do not move them until I tell you, do you understand?” 

Sansa nodded and raised her arms up high. She did not trust her voice to speak. 

Petyr brought his fingers to her already-sensitive folds, slick with product of her dreams.

Despite _everything,_ Sansa’s blood stirred whenever Petyr was near, it practically caught fire when he touched her.

It wasn’t the best angle, reaching around with only one hand to use, but she was already in a heightened state. Sansa began rocking, every move forward pressing her harder against Petyr’s hand, every rock back causing his cock to burrow deeper within the crease of her bottom. 

It took some deft movements of his fingers, given the position, but eventually, Sansa could feel her climax building. 

Petyr fisted her hair at the nape of her neck and yanked her head back. It made Sansa groan, forcing her to deepen her arch and grind her backside against his shaft. The act called to mind how it felt when he had penetrated her there, and she gave a small shiver. 

It also made her wonder what it would be like if she just… surrendered. Allowed him to slip inside, replacing his fingers with his hard cock and filling her where she _most_ ached.

Sansa didn’t think it was possible to simultaneously desire and despise someone so much. 

Her hands itched to shove Petyr right off their bedroom terrace. 

Her tongue threatened to beg, _“Fuck me, please. Please, Petyr, fuck me.”_

The image of him thrusting into her sent her toward the edge she sought.

Petyr knew her body too well. 

Just before she came, the _second_ before it would be too late to halt the fall into the abyss, he leaned to her ear, choosing to whisper the moment when Sansa couldn’t humanly stop her orgasm if the North and all the realm depended on it. 

And she knew the bastard did it just for the thrill of hearing her cry out in pleasure to his decree. 

“You’re mine to command, Sansa.” 

And she shattered into his hands. 

And she only had a speck of hate flash before her eyes at his words. 

Mostly, she came harder from them. 

When the aftershocks died down, she flipped onto her other side, facing him. 

Petyr was smirking, but there was no menace in it, as she suspected there might be from the harsh growl of his words. His smile touched his eyes, and when she met them, he raised his eyebrows, once; smugly, but almost teasingly. 

Sansa would not be charmed. 

“You saw you needed to re-establish dominance first thing in the morning,” Sansa declared, affecting a bored expression. 

“I saw you needed release first thing in the morning.”

She swallowed, stuttered. “I- I, don’t know what you mean.” 

_Pathetic lie. You both know you do._

“When you’re aroused you moan in your sleep, Sansa. It’s obvious you’re having a certain kind of dream.” 

Sansa felt the blush heat her cheeks. _Not even my dreams are secret._

“It’s been occurring with greater frequency, of late,” Petyr said. 

“How often do I… does this happen?” 

“Only a handful of times,” he said, to Sansa’s relief. 

“Do I ever… speak in these dreams?” she asked, dreading his reply. 

“No. You moan softly, and your hips writhe a bit on the bed.” A pause, and then he said, “Except…”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. 

“Except the night of our wedding. You were aroused, seeking something, but… troubled.”

 _I wonder what in the Seven Kingdoms could have caused that?_

“You called my name,” he rasped. 

Sansa sighed, almost a groan. 

“I held you but… it didn’t seem to calm you.”

The hair on her neck stood on end as she could tell he neared a confession. 

“So I reached below and… held you there. As I did today. You stilled then, and returned to quiet dreams.” 

Sansa clenched her jaw. “So mere hours after swearing not to touch me, you broke that promise. In my sleep, no less.” 

“What kind of husband would I be to deny a wife who calls out for him?” 

Sansa ignored the comment and changed the subject. 

“Am I correct in assuming I won’t be leaving this room until tomorrow?” she asked. 

“Yes.”

Her stomach knotted, unable to imagine what the day beheld. 

“In that case, I’d like to try a… fresh experience.” Sansa made sure to lock onto his eyes.

“You have everything you desired. There’s no need for further deception. I’m in this room, and I’m well aware what that means. In return, until we leave, could you try not to lie? One whole day where we only tell each other the truth?”

“Oh, I’m sure I could try,” he replied. 

Sansa folded her arms. 

Petyr’s face turned serious. “I will not lie to you, I swear it.” 

“For instance,” he said, moving down on the bed, voice gravelly with lust, “If I’m being honest, it’s been so long since I’ve tasted you. I’d like to taste you now, Sansa.”

Sansa clamped her legs shut. Of course he wanted more than just using his hands on her. She couldn’t imagine _his_ frustration at backtracking their intimacy, if hers was nearly unbearable, even through her fury. 

But the idea she’d had -- that she’d given up her kingdom for the pleasure of Petyr’s tongue between her folds – made her worry what she’d feel if, _when,_ he did it again.

“No,” Sansa protested. “Not yet, later. Tonight maybe.”

For a long moment, Petyr stared at Sansa as if she were a puzzle to solve. 

He sat up, having decided something, and his look did _nothing_ to calm her. 

“I won’t kiss your sweet cunt until you beg me to.” 

“Petyr…” Sansa said, narrowing her eyes with suspicion. There was a threat in there, she was sure. Spanking her until she asked for it, or the like. 

“Come, let us break our fast,” he said, ignoring her. He crossed to the door and requested the servants bring up something to eat. 

#

There’d been plenty of mint served at the morning meal, and Sansa was grateful to freshen her tongue. They ate on the terrace, the day bright and pleasant. Sansa wondered, with mounting unease, what unimaginable tortures it had store. 

Petyr was staring at her. 

“I have something for you,” he finally said. 

He rose, crossing into their chambers. She listened to him moving about his work area. Heard the click of a lock from one of the heavy boxes sitting upon his desk. 

When he returned, he held something within his hand. 

“I had planned to give you this on our wedding day, but…” 

_But you gave me something else instead,_ Sansa thought wryly. _Something most unpleasant._

He drew her to her feet and opened his hand. 

Sansa blinked. 

Within, sat a silver ring with one glorious stone. She couldn’t make out what it was. Her eyes flicked up to Petyr’s. 

“It’s a very rare gray diamond,” he said, holding it up. On one side of the band, a direwolf was etched; on the other, a mockingbird. 

_Gifts? He thought to woo her with presents?_ No mere token would make her forgive his betrayals. 

“I had the band made from one of mine.” He held up his right hand, showing only two rings instead of the usual three. He’d been missing one since before their wedding, but she’d only thought he’d changed up his style. 

“It was the first ring I’d ever worn,” Petyr explained, taking her hand and slipping the jewel onto a finger. “There was extra silver left in the forging so, I had what remained added to another I wear.” To indicate, he tapped his thumb against the silver band of his own ring. 

Petyr brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. “Now we both share the same ring.” 

_Oh, but he was clever, wasn’t he?_ That was just the sort of thing to make a girl swoon. 

Sansa knew it, but she felt a lump in her throat anyway. It _would_ have made her teary, the fool she’d been on their wedding day. 

Lifting her hand, Sansa gazed at the ring. It was neither light, nor dark, but it dazzled all the same as she turned it in the sun. 

Petyr’s eyes searched her face. She could tell he enjoyed giving her the gift, that much was genuine. He wanted it to please her. 

“Thank you,” Sansa said, quietly. “It’s lovely.” 

Petyr brought her hand to his lips again, kissing her knuckles. 

“Never take it off?” he said, part question, part directive. “Swear to me.” 

“I swear,” Sansa replied. 

It was the first of two lies she’d tell that day. 

#

They returned to bed, talking away the morning as Petyr stroked Sansa’s bare skin. He continually manipulated the situation so that he was generally clothed; she, naked. 

He traced the long column of her neck. “You were born to be queen.” 

“And you were born to be king?” Sansa meant it rhetorically. But he replied. 

“I was born to take the throne, yes. But even Robert Baratheon knew there was a difference between taking it and holding it. Remember that, Sansa, if we’re to rule and rule well.”

Sansa tilted her head, surprised. “You’re worried about rebellion? More than half the major houses are more than half destroyed. The dragons have flown off to the gods-only-know where. And there are no more Targaryens remaining to press a claim.” 

“There are always _several_ other nobles remaining, to press a claim,” Petyr said. “But no, that is not my concern. My endeavor now is to determine what kind of reign this will be, what legacy I will leave.” 

Sansa realized two things as he spoke. One, Petyr did not yet have everything he ever wanted, his plans weren’t complete. They were, in some ways, only just getting started. And two… legacy hinted at _heirs._ He wanted them. Of course he did. 

Their conversation continued in this manner, concerning the realm. Aside from his manipulations with the North, Petyr seemed to truly want her to be his partner in politics, especially now that he felt she was coming around to his side again. 

When Sansa thought about it, it was strange that Petyr elevated her position in court business, that he sought to ingratiate her in small council meetings and decisions… but when it came to their bed chambers, he enjoyed her total surrender. 

With any other monarch, it would have likely been the other way around. 

A king might make love gently to his queen -- or roughly, or passionately, or with a disinterested sense of duty. But Sansa doubted many would fuck with such thorough dominance as Petyr did, requiring her submission as soon as they crossed the threshold into their room.

And yet. A thousand kings could come and go, and none would seek to make a queen his equal in political matters, as Petyr strove to do. 

“Why have you brought Lord Tyrion here?” she asked, while Petyr ran his fingers through her hair. 

“Why, to make him Hand,” he replied, as if it were obvious. 

It wasn’t, not until he’d said it. And then Sansa felt naïve for missing what was so plain. She’d thought Tyrion would be named Master of Coin. 

_No, of course._ Varys had been an intermittent solution. He wasn’t cut out for the position of Hand, he better served as Master of Whispers, as usual. It dawned on Sansa that all of the council members were but placeholders. Littlefinger hadn’t yet gotten down to the real work of his reign. 

“Who will serve as Master of Coin?” Sansa asked. 

“Someone from Dorne. He’s not yet been named. I’m awaiting their choice, with little say in the matter. Our wedding has caused a relationship to repair.” 

Sansa was surprised she felt little guilt over her part. She had done what she needed to do. The dangled promise of her hand was one of the few key assets she could employ when war ravaged the kingdoms, and she would never have foreseen her wedding to Petyr as the eventual outcome. 

“And a new Master of Ships, as well? It will be someone from the Iron Islands, I take it? Or is there anyone left in Highgarden you need to favor?” 

“The Iron Islands. We'll build someone up in Highgarden to take over as Master of War.”

“And that leaves my Northman as Master of Laws?” 

“Seems fitting for those who keep the honor of the old ways,” he quipped, more than a hint of mocking in his words. 

Sansa had to admit there was a sense of symmetry to it all, a feeling of rightness. 

“So you’ve been working with Tyrion, grooming him for the role,” she said, slowly. 

“Tyrion doesn’t need any grooming, he’s intelligent enough,” Petyr replied. 

“Yes… but being smart enough for the role and being clever in ways _you require,_ to serve at your side, are two different things.” 

Petyr stifled a smirk. 

Sansa licked her lips, met Petyr’s eyes. 

“As you were grooming me?” she asked. 

He backed up, studying her. 

“Yes,” he said finally. 

Sansa took a breath, struggling with the surge of emotions that admission brought on. 

“Since we’re telling the truth, tell me,” she whispered. “For how long? Were you planning all this, to bring me here, since the day we met?”

“I don’t know.” Littlefinger leaned on his side, elbow bent, propping up his head on one hand. He paused, and then, “your father wanted to marry you, after I left Winterfell.”

Sansa stiffened at both the mention of Ned, as well as the news. Then she turned toward Petyr, laying on her side, waiting for him to continue. 

“I wasn’t sure if I had… another use for you,” Petyr confessed. 

Sansa lowered her eyes, a sinking feeling in her gut, and shame at having been such an unknowing pawn coloring her cheeks. 

“And I did feel responsible for putting the proposal in motion in the first place,” he said. 

“To whom was this marriage proposed?” 

“Willas Tyrell.”

“The heir to Highgarden?” 

“Ned thought the boy’s gentle nature would temper your… impetuous, headstrong ways. I knew better,” he said, almost biting out the words. 

“I appreciate your not agreeing with that unflattering assessment of my character,” Sansa said. 

“Oh no,” Petyr replied. “You can be quite stubborn. But Willas’s agreeable nature wouldn’t moderate that behavior.” 

“And what would, your grace?” Sansa asked through gritted teeth, as she already suspected the answer. 

“Discipline,” Petyr replied. 

“Discipline you’re conveniently happy to provide?” she asked. 

“Yes. You’d roll right over the Tyrell boy,” he said, running his thumb over her scowling mouth, then taking the lower lip between two fingers and tugging it gently. “I won’t allow it.” 

Petyr often did that – give her a compliment wrapped in something slightly insulting at the same time.

But she smiled smugly and said, “More like, you didn’t want the joining of two powerful houses within which you had no well-placed pawn. You couldn’t allow the threat of the alliance.”

She took Petyr’s silence as acceptance that there was truth to her words. 

“You said you had other uses for me.” Sansa pushed on, voice low. “What would those be? The truth. You swore today.” 

Petyr worked his jaw. “Marrying you into a family I could control. Robin Arryn, or a prominent Targaryen supporter.” 

The truth stung. Her pride, even her heart. And still, she knew he was holding back. 

“Or stringing me along, yes? That was a possibility?” Sansa whispered. “Causing the naïve young Stark girl to adore you from afar, a puppet like Lysa Arryn? _The truth, Petyr._ Until I served my purpose and you discarded me.” _Until you broke my heart,_ she thought. 

Petyr’s silence was longer than the last one. Finally, eyes closing, he breathed, “yes.” 

Even though it only confirmed what she knew, it hurt her, acutely, to hear him say it. 

_It’s a hurt you can use,_ she told herself. _To remember what he is._

#

A light midday meal was brought to their room, one tray piled with goose eggs, biscuits, blood oranges, cheese and apricot tarts. Another tray contained servings of mint tea, and strange accompaniments Sansa did not recognize. They dined on the terrace once more, both wearing only loose robes. Petyr kept the tea tray inside, to cool, he said. 

As she finished, Sansa took a tart from the plate and walked to the balustrade. She spied gulls soaring by the shore. 

_If I could fly, I’d simply glide away from here,_ she imagined. 

When the thought brought an unwelcome pain to her breast, she scolded herself, and ignored it. 

Sansa looked down. The simple act made her heartbeat pick up speed, the only bearable part was that from their room, a tiered series of balconies jutted out below, so that it was not a sheer drop to the ground, but only a few floors down to where another, larger terrace hung. 

And directly below her room? Sansa wasn’t sure. There was no terrace, but surely, a window? 

An idea began to form, her heart beating faster as she considered it. It might be possible for her to escape by climbing down a floor. Using the bedsheet or some such material to lower herself. It need only be _one floor._ From there, Ros could lead her though the tunnels and onto a waiting ship. 

She’d just wiped an errant crumb from her last bite, when Petyr interrupted her revere. 

“Come, lie down on the bed.” 

Sansa froze, guilty. Could he hear her thoughts? 

Slowly, she turned, but found he looked relaxed, pleased, even. 

“Come,” he repeated, extending his hand. 

She took it, and he led her to the bed formally, as if it were their first time together or he were escorting her to a council meeting. 

Something was happening, and Sansa didn’t know what. Petyr untied her robe, baring her breasts, her body. She felt gooseflesh rise in trepidation. Like a child, she allowed Petyr to undress her, sliding the robe from her shoulders and onto the floor. He guided her back onto the bed, and she settled down against a pillow. 

Petyr took her hands in his and raised them above her head. “I want you to keep your hands here, touching,” he said, as he pressed them against the headboard. 

Sansa’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. 

“Why?” she asked. 

“Keep them there,” he warned. “I don’t want to have to punish you.” 

Sansa took a deep breath as Petyr rose from the bed. 

He returned, holding a small, tan cube in his hand. 

“Open your mouth,” he said. 

Sansa knit her brows, but complied. 

He placed a sugary morsel in her mouth. She bit down. 

“Candied ginger from Pentos,” he explained. “It’s an aphrodisiac we keep in the brothels.” 

Sansa swallowed the new treat. “It’s sweet and… spicy at the same time,” she marveled. 

“In this form, yes,” Petyr said. He took out another piece, this one looked to be a root. Fetching his catspaw from the beside table, he began peeling away the skin. 

“In it’s original form, it’s more potent,” he explained as he carved, revealing a fleshy yellow within. 

Sansa felt the tension deepen, but she couldn’t pinpoint why or what was happening, and it made her even more nervous. 

“Do you know what they do with these, in the brothels? Was that in any of your carriage books?” 

The gooseflesh spread throughout her body. She shook her head. 

“They insert this into a man or woman’s bottom, and it causes quite a burning sensation.” 

Sansa’s eyes widened. She did not want that thing going into her. Her hands drifted from the headboard. 

“Hands up,” Petyr shook his head in disapproval, “we’ll both be sorry if I have to tell you again.” 

“I’m not going to do that,” Petyr continued, peeling the ginger, and relief washed over her. But he spread her legs and bent them and she felt deeply vulnerable. 

“We’re going to try a _fresh experience,”_ he said, mimicking her words from earlier, _“here,_ Sansa.” His hand gently cupped her sex as he said _here._

Sansa’s heart pounded erratically now. What did he mean by _burn?_ How much? 

Petyr took the wicked-looking thing and pressed it against her cunt. Sansa jumped, but no burn came. It felt cool, hard. She swallowed. 

Her eyes darted left and right. What was supposed to happen? 

Petyr rubbed the length of the root along her folds, then pressed it inside her, holding it there for some time before removing it. 

After a minute, a tingle began. Pleasurable at first, even as it started to build. And then, more intense. _Hot._

The heat grew. Soon, a burning sensation ran from her clitoris down to the bottom of her slit, and especially, _within_ her. 

It wasn’t unbearable, but it was increasingly painful, and she was panicked about how much worse it would get and how long it would last. 

_“Fuck,”_ Sansa breathed. “Petyr…” 

In response, he leaned down and gently blew on her sex. A coolness washed over her and she sighed at the pleasure. 

But when the air died down, the heat built up again and now it had grown. 

“Petyr…” Sansa moaned, and he repeated the process. She relaxed into the bed as the cool respite came. And then the fire returned, even more intense. 

“Petyr!” she cried out a third time, now squirming, but he did not respond. “Petyr, please!” Sansa said, lifting her head and searching to meet his eyes. 

“Yes?” he asked, lips hinting at a smile. His left brow pointed in a particularly sinister arch. 

She threw her head back, understanding. There was only one way to stop the burning. She could suffer the inferno, or allow him to do as he pleased with his mouth. 

_Beg_ him to do as he pleased with his mouth, as he decreed that morning. 

_Only a creature from the seven hells could devise such a torture._

Petyr had a way of making Sansa _feel_ too much. Like her emotions were too _big_ to handle and she needed to scream in anger or lust - _or both_ \- to let them out. 

Sansa splayed her legs further, no concern for what she revealed, thinking only on relieving the heat from her core. 

“Please Petyr, will you… help me?” 

“Help you how?” he asked, drawing out the torture. Sansa writhed, legs spread, sure it gave the bastard a show he enjoyed, but unable to care at the moment. 

“Please cool me with… your mouth.” 

“Are you begging? I wouldn’t want to go back on my word.” 

_He was insufferable._

“Yes, Petyr. I’m begging you to put your tongue on me.” 

“On you where?” 

_Gods, he was making this as awful as possible!_

“I’m begging you to put your tongue in my cunt.” She couldn’t stand the heat any longer. “Please, Petyr.” 

“As my queen commands,” he said, bowing his head. 

He positioned his mouth between her legs, but did not immediately go further. Instead, he continued to blow, mixing the cool air with the heating sensation. 

... And now that her panic about being left in pain subsided, the feeling began to excite her. 

Although… if she were honest… being at Petyr’s mercy, enduring the pain he inflicted, excited her too. It made her feel so _helpless,_ so _desired,_ so _belonging to him._

He licked her slit and she shuddered with the pleasure and relief. When he moved his head away, the burning returned. He leaned forward again and repeated the movement several times, driving Sansa into a frenzy. 

Finally, he clamped his mouth down on all of her and a wave of ecstasy crashed over her body. 

_Why had I fought so hard against this?_ she immediately thought. 

Petry lapped, drawing the heat from her, until it dissipated completely. Then there was only his soft tongue probing, his gentle lips against her folds, his prickly beard and moustache tickling her in a delightful way. 

_Gods,_ she wanted this forever. Sansa cried out to The Seven when she came, bucking erratically, so that Petyr had to hold her down to finish. Her mind blanked, she felt as if she shot right out of her body. 

As she drifted back into herself, Sansa became conscious of her pounding heart, so fierce she thought it might burst. 

Petyr lifted himself up to kiss her and she hesitated at the taste of herself on his lips, but she was too enmeshed in the throes of bliss to put up any resistance. 

They tumbled together then, bodies entwining, and when they found a sitting position, Sansa’s hand accidentally grazed against Petyr’s cock. 

In an instant, he grabbed her hand and pressed it to his length, eyes wild. And the next instant, he withdrew, fisting his hand and looking almost apologetic. Sansa was startled and confused. 

Her fingers hesitated, hovering a hair’s breadth away. Petyr seemed _painfully_ engorged. She studied his face and could see he was torn - badly wanting her to continue but unable to bring himself to ask it of her - and the denied pleasure looked to excruciate him. 

Making a decision that surprised even herself, Sansa wrapped her fingers along his cock and pumped once. Petyr’s head dropped back and he groaned, giving himself over to her.

The sound delighted her, the power she wielded over him. That the merest touch, _her_ touch, broke him, defenseless. 

Sansa didn’t even know who was seducing who anymore. Where the truth ended and the lies began. Which mask either of them were wearing, at any given time. 

She continued her up-and-down rhythm, watching the pleasure build across his face. He kept his eyes locked on hers. Without thinking about it, Sansa reached down with her other hand and cupped his balls, giving a gentle tug. Petyr gave a start, but his moan told her he liked it. Holding King Petyr, this powerful man, so helpless in her hands, made Sansa bite her lip and break into a wicked grin. 

His eyes fluttered shut as he came, spilling a staggering amount of seed across her thighs, the bedsheets. 

Depleted, he collapsed and drew her into his arms, resting her head against his chest as he’d done so many times before. 

They were quiet for awhile, just enjoying the silence, catching their breath. Their room faced east, to the sea, and though the day still had many hours remaining and the sun was bright, natural light no longer flooded the depths of their chambers. 

Finally, Sansa asked what she’d been pondering. 

“Why did you remove your hand so abruptly? It was as if you’d been burned.” 

A pause. “I didn’t want to force you.” 

Sansa gave a choked laugh. 

“Do you know how many times, before we were married, you instructed me to kneel, mouth open? Awaiting your arrival in my room, to take you in between my lips as soon as you entered? Do you remember that game, Petyr? You didn’t mind forcing me then.” 

It was true he hadn’t commanded her to do so as often as he commanded other positions, focused on the pleasure _he’d_ give _her._ But. He never had a moment’s regret when it was the other way around and he ordered her to wait for him, to _service_ him. 

“I didn’t know if you wanted to,” Petyr rasped. 

“It didn’t matter before,” Sansa insisted. 

“It did. But even when we first met, re-met,” he corrected, “I knew you wanted the same things. Underneath it all.” 

“That’s rather presumptuous and convenient.” Sansa remarked. “And now… you don’t know?” 

“I know you need time,” Petyr replied. 

_Oh, neither jewels nor time will heal your betrayals. And you have a godsdamn bewildering sense of mortality,_ she thought, completely unclear on the rules.

But what was clear, was that he didn’t want to distress her further than he already had. 

What did he truly want? 

Obviously, to return his desire. Of that she was certain. But did Littlefinger pursue her for her claim, or did he believe himself in love with her? 

“What do you want from me?” Sansa asked. It was the third time she’d asked the question. The first time, she’d gotten no reply. The second, he spun her a tale of her beside him as he sat the Iron Throne. “We promised not to lie to each other today. What do want, Petyr?” 

“Everything,” he breathed, and somehow the whisper sounded pained, like it was spoken through a clenched jaw. 

Sansa heard the truth of it. 

_He wanted her to love him._

She was sure of it now – whether it stemmed from ego or from a distorted belief that _he_ loved _her,_ she didn’t know. But it was an advantage. 

She licked her lips. Sansa almost felt guilty using the knowledge. Almost. 

Ideas began forming in her head, cut off when he next spoke. 

“And now, if we’re being honest, I have a question to ask you, sweetling.” 

Sansa immediately tensed, guard raised. 

“What were you stalling for?” 

“I’m sorry?” she asked, after a hesitant breath. 

_Did he suspect her escape plan?_

“You had no intention of re-joining me in bed once Arya was safe, we’ve established that. You were stringing me along.” 

Sansa swallowed, stomach knotting. 

_I didn’t think I would have to, before I could find a way out of the keep._

“But why, to what end?” he asked, and she heard him rub his hand against his beard, once. 

_Think,_ she scolded herself. 

“You’re too intelligent not to have had a plan. So now it’s your turn to tell the truth. What was it you were waiting to occur?”


	18. Girl on the Ramparts - Part II

“I’m only going to ask you one more time, Sansa. What were you stalling for?” 

He gripped her firmly by her forearms now, forcing her to look at him, so that he could see the truth of whatever she spoke. There was no boyish charm to the hard set of his face.

Sansa found herself fixating on the gray threading his temples, rather than meet his eyes. 

_Think._

Every second she delayed she was going to have to come up with a bigger and bigger lie. 

Petyr’s fingers were starting to hurt, they would leave a mark. 

“Moon tea.” The cry tumbled from her mouth the moment it came to mind. 

The confused way Petyr knit his brows told her she had a foothold. He might buy it. 

He looked as if to say, _you do know where babies come from, don’t you?_

But also, the mention of moon tea made something glint, deep in his eyes. 

_Oh yes. Hope._ She could work with that. 

And better yet – already thinking two steps ahead - she could turn the tables. 

“I was waiting until I could procure a vial without your knowledge,” Sansa lied. “I knew the Grand Maester would just tell you, if I asked him for a cup. I was hoping I could convince one of the servants to help me. Eventually.” 

“Sansa…” Petyr began, a lecturing tone in his voice. 

“Yes, Petyr, I understand by agreement we weren’t… coupling. Yet. But you and I both know you’d find a way to manipulate the situation, manipulate _me,_ so that it happened sooner or later. Don’t deny it. You swore not to lie today.” 

Petyr licked his lips, his eyes briefly darting away. At least he had the grace to look a little sheepish. 

“The idea of children… isn’t something I was prepared to give up on. No.” 

_I knew it. Godsdamn liar._

But now he was on the defense. Her reaction would determine the path of the conversation. 

_Why, of course I’ll come and meet you halfway. How better to change the subject?_

“Petyr, I’m not… I’m not opposed to having children…” Sansa let that knowledge sink in, before continuing. It had the intended effect – greed flashed in his eyes, his mouth slackened, hungry. Before she could feel any triumph, however, she felt alarm. Seeing his reaction affected _her._ That Petyr desired her so much, he wanted every part of her. _Her_ womb to bear _his_ seed. That primal, masculine urge to claim spread a warmth inside her, like a deep swallow of hot rum. 

Sansa banished the thought and continued. “I just want to wait a little. I’m not ready to be a mother yet. Don’t you think some time would be nice first? A few months, at least?”

Suspicion darkened his face once more. 

“I’m not saying I won’t… that we can’t fuck. _I know you._ I know how you work, I know you’re conniving to make it happen even as I speak. I’m just saying, I don’t want a baby tomorrow.” 

Her words not only threw off suspicion, they pleased him, for he lifted his right hand from her arm and pressed it to her cheek. 

“You know there are other ways than moon tea,” he said, as if to assuage her fears. “It’s the most infallible, but we can also consider the timing of your moon blood. Take extra precautions when you’re most fertile.” He chuckled. “The advantages of marrying a former brothel keep.” 

_This was unwise,_ Sansa suddenly realized. She’d talked him away from her plans, but at the price of proffering their delayed bedding. Petyr Baelish was no hesitant Prince of Dorne, prizes _outside_ his reach were hardly safe, ones dangled _within_ his grasp were as good as gone. 

She chewed the inside of her mouth. She was playing on a real-life cyvasse board, and every time she made one move forward, Petyr advanced two at her expense. 

She would need to expedite her escape. As soon as she could leave the room, she’d find Ros and urge her to hasten their plans.

#

Sansa blinked. The sun shouldn’t have been setting over King’s Landing, it couldn’t have happened so fast. 

After she'd discussed heirs with Petyr, he kissed her, long and deep, breaking away only to stare into her eyes, and then consume her mouth again in his hungry, urgent way.

Time had sped, kissing Petyr. Like it pulled her under, into a state of half-dreaming, and when she fully regained her senses, it felt like minutes had passed, not hours. Like traces of dreamwine coated his lips, lulling her, until the sun dipped low in the sky. 

As soon as Sansa had the thought, she put into place another piece of her escape puzzle.

She’d drug Petyr’s wine. 

Lace it with sweetsleep or milk of the poppy. It would have to be undetectable by scent. And it would have to work fast. Perhaps she could mix a pinch of the two? Or add something else to quicken the effects? Because as soon Petyr felt or suspected anything, he’d call the guards. 

Figuring out the best formula… another task for Ros then. 

“Are you hungry?” Petyr asked, running his fingertips down Sansa’s back, toward her rear. 

“A little,” she replied. 

With a feather-light touch, Petyr traced horizontal lines across both curves of her bottom. Gooseflesh rose wherever his fingertips trailed. 

“You’re so willful,” he whispered. “One day I’ll need to mark you with my belt.” 

Sansa gave a sharp intake of breath, the butterflies took flight in her stomach. 

“It will hurt me more than it hurts you, to do it,” he added. 

She broke into a laugh bordering on a snort. Sansa flipped her head towards him. 

“Of all the lies you’ve ever told, that one is the most shameless.” 

Petyr bit his lip. 

Sansa shook her head, laughing, tossing her hair back in a way she knew enchanted him. He squeezed her right buttock until she gasped. 

Then her face fell. 

Their behavior was too easy. Too comfortable. 

_Don’t fall for his charms,_ she reminded herself. 

#

They moved, Petyr reclining on his back, half propped up against the headboard. Sansa rested her head low on his chest. 

“Do you know what I am to you?” she asked. This time, her hands trailed down Petyr’s flat stomach. She did enjoy his lean body. He kept himself fitter than men half his age, and while she had no basis of comparison for his stamina, she had no cause for complaint. 

“I’d say my queen and my wife,” Petyr answered. “I’m guessing you’re going to say my prisoner.”

“A girl on the ramparts.” 

He said nothing, and she continued, still stroking his skin.

“It’s the reason you prefer not to tie me down.” The idea took shape in her mind, even as she spoke it. 

“Any brute can overpower a lady, force himself on her in bed. Taking a woman who is repulsed by you would equally repulse you. Not to mention, there’s no… intellectual challenge to it,” Sansa explained. 

She heard Petyr’s breath quicken as her fingers neared his erection. She took her time, drawing out the torture, playfully tapping her fingertips lower and lower on his stomach. 

“On the other hand, if a girl is so meek as to submit to your every whim, cower at your commands, you’d soon grow bored. You weren’t looking for a slave, a commoner you could intimidate.” 

Sansa finally clasped her hand around Petyr’s shaft, and heard his soft groan. 

“You wanted someone who enjoys sharing your bed, in the manner you require. But, with enough spirit that you need you to bring her to heel, again and again and again.” 

Punctuating each _again,_ Sansa squeezed Petyr’s cock and felt his arms tighten around her. 

“It’s as if I run the ramparts. Until you call me down, or I jump. And you never know if I’m going to fall within, or without,” Sansa declared. 

“If I fall inside the walls as you command… Well. It’s right into your waiting arms. But it’s only a matter of time before I climb back up the battlements and race along the edge again. If I fall to the other side, out of your grasp… well… it’s only a matter of time before you ride out, catch me, and drag me back inside.” 

“Again, and again, and again,” she said, once more squeezing his length with each word.

She removed her hand away completely and heard him give a small grunt of frustration. 

“I wouldn’t have put it that way, but… I’ll allow some truth to it.” Petyr said. 

“So tell me, sweetling. Which is it you prefer? When I catch you? Or when I ride out to drag you back?” 

Sansa quickly returned her hand to his erection, rather than entertain the question. 

#

After dinner, the air chilled, and Petyr called the servants to light a fire in the hearth and fetch hot water for a bath. 

“In,” was all he said, once the tub was filled. 

“Aren’t you joining me?” 

He shook his head. 

“I think that-”

“Shh…” he whispered. 

Sansa licked her lips and began to undress. Why had she even bothered putting on clothes? Petyr had dressed for dinner, so she assumed she’d be able to remain robed, for a while anyway. 

To her right, a slight breeze blew from the open terrace. To her left, the fire warmed her body. 

She stepped into the steaming tub, lowering herself slowly as it was almost too hot for her fair skin. Petyr found a sponge and reached over, to bathe her, but Sansa scooped up a handful of water and splashed it down the neck of his collar, laughing. 

He gave her that look that said, _you’ll pay for that later._

Petyr removed his outer robe, both due to the fact that it was now wet and because, she supposed, he’d only soil it further. He pushed the sleeves of his doublet up and out of the way. 

Petyr bid Sansa stand, and she did, listening to the water drip off her body and splash back into the tub. She opened her mouth to speak. 

“Shh...” he repeated. 

He began washing her body, paying particular attention to her womanly areas. Eventually, he did away with the sponge and used only his wet hands, running them up her long, slim legs, over the curve of her ass, cupping her breasts and making her sigh. 

She remained standing, on display, motionless except for the occasional arch into Petyr’s caresses. The ritual seemed to be many things at once. Tender, as if he caressed a cherished lover. Objectifying, as if she were his possession. Reverential, like she was a goddess. Paternal, like she was a child. 

The bedroom was so still, save the drip of the water, the breeze through the curtains, the crackle of the fire. 

Petyr turned Sansa to him and she studied his sharp features as he worked. He had a king’s face, a regal air about him. Right down to his clean, elegant fingers. Sansa had always liked his slight build, his impeccable dress, his restrained, formal mannerisms. She had to concede it suited a sovereign. 

Littlefinger was so different from the Northmen to which she’d become accustomed. His neat, trimmed beard was nothing like the bushy explosion of hair so common in Winterfell. Half the time, meat from feasting became trapped the men’s coarse tangle of hairs, or they dribbled wine onto their beards and bellies. They often stunk of horses, or sweat from sparring in the stock yard. These burly folk were her people, and she deeply loved them and respected them, yet… she could not see welcoming that type of man into her bed. 

Most northerners would be ill-suited as a match for her, she knew. A Dornishman might have served, but would he have bestowed the devotion her faithful heart required, or would others have turned his head? 

Sansa gave a slight shake of her own. She needed to stop. Petyr was dangerous, this line of thinking even more so. 

She was almost grateful for the distraction when he guided her, wordlessly, onto her hands and knees. 

Spread, he slowly ran his long fingers closer and closer to her core, until at last they passed over her slit and she moaned. He dipped them briefly inside, the bathwater mixing with her own wetness. 

Petyr even dragged his finger up and inserted it into her backside, causing her to gasp and grasp the edge of the tub. 

_“Mmpf,”_ she moaned, closed-mouthed, when he went deeper. It was stunningly humiliating and exciting at the same time. She dared not speak, or move. He just _took_ and she just _gave._

When he was finally satisfied, Petyr withdrew, rinsing his hands in the water. He helped her out of the bath, wrapped her in a robe, and guided her back to the bed once more. 

#

Sansa could still feel a small ache where his finger had been. 

“Our wedding night,” she said, interrupting the silence. “It hurt. Not terribly, but-” 

“But it felt good, as well. You’ll get used to it,” Petyr murmured. He turned his head and kissed her cheek. “Once we proceed, I will take you that way again, occasionally, in the future.”

Sansa huffed, riled by his blunt decree. She clenched her jaw, hating the way he felt entitled to violate her whenever and however he wished. _Or did she hate that she liked it?_

“Alright,” she countered, “so long as you let me tie you down and take you in such a manner first. So that _you_ can see what it feels like. I know there are devices fashioned, I read about them in those books you so thoughtfully provided.” 

Petyr stroked her arm and said nothing for a moment. 

“Alright,” he agreed, voice heavy. _“Once._ If it will help you forgive. We can do it tonight, if you like.” 

Sansa sucked in a breath. She hadn’t expected his acquiescence and could tell by his reluctance that it was no small offer he made. She was torn between being touched by his capitulation, and tormenting him further, as he seemed to want to get it quickly over and done. Then she realized he was probably only agreeing to speed things along.

 _Gods, nothing he did was ever sincere._ If she wasn’t constantly on guard, she’d find herself taken advantage of. 

“No,” she replied, slowly. “I want to make you suffer the anticipation for a while. Then surprise you at the worst moment possible. As you did me, on our wedding night.” 

Littlefinger chucked. 

“You have a thoroughly un-northern like evil streak, are you aware?” 

Sansa snorted. “I’m not the one lording over the seven hells.”

“Pardon?” 

A pause. Sansa felt her chance to assert some power. 

“I got the idea in your carriage, coming down to King’s Landing. It felt like everything you were doing served to lure me deeper into the seven hells, each worse than the last. And you, the demon lord, presiding over them all.”

Petyr gave a small chuckle. 

“That’s rather clever. May I ask what each of these levels entailed?”

“It all began with engagement, of course. That was the beginning, when we met. Then you created these games, these machinations, played out across the realm. All contrived to ensnare me, all leading to the actual capture.” Sansa blushed as she spoke. “Once I was in King’s Landing, you focused entirely on manipulating my submission.”

She licked her lips, steeling herself to continue. 

“And then when you had me at your mercy… you used your skills to learn my body, to know what I liked. To own my body.” Her blush deepened as she related that part. 

“But even that wasn’t enough. You slipped into my head as well, always figuring out what I’d do, even before I knew it. Going so far as to guide my thoughts, until you mastered my mind the way you mastered the throne.” 

“It all sounds rather impressive when you put it that way,” Petyr said, flattered, not minding in the least that he’d been painted in such a sinister light. “That’s six. What was the last level?”

Sansa paused again, a beat too long, and Petyr turned his head to her, tilting it with a cautious sort of curiosity. 

Sansa dipped her chin, ready to deliver the blow and see, once and for all, how heavy it would land. 

“I never… ah, went there. You had my body. My mind. But I didn’t descend to your seventh hell.” She shrugged, just like he so often did. “I would never give you my heart, of course.” 

Petyr’s body stiffened, for a moment Sansa didn’t think he breathed. When he resumed, it was heavy. 

Everything stilled. All of Sansa’s senses heightened, on edge. Something had shifted, in no small way. 

Petyr grabbed Sansa by her shoulders and tried to kiss her. She pulled away. It was rough, as if he tried to kiss her into taking back what she said. 

He grabbed her again and Sansa pushed him off harder. She scrambled out of bed, standing. 

“Come here now, Sansa.” 

Sansa backed up, not entirely sure what they were playing at, but knowing there was a critical power in resisting him at this moment. 

“No.” 

Petyr’s eyes were dark and dangerous. 

_Oh, you don’t like not being able to take something, don’t you Petyr?_

Petyr rose and stalked toward Sansa. She instinctively backed up, even though something inside her grew bold. The restoration of power she’d long lost, the she-wolf returned. Sansa felt like a wild wolf, running, fueled by fury. She couldn’t stop the words tumbling out of her mouth. 

“You think you’ve won because I’m trapped here with you? Because you can make my _body_ want you?” 

“I do not _love_ you, I do not love the man I married. I never will.” Sansa laughed. And it was nervous, but still _a laugh._

She had no way of knowing that her own mother had pushed Petyr away, and laughed the same, long ago. 

But Sansa was not her mother. And Petyr no longer that little boy. 

Her breath quivered in her throat, anticipating an attack. He’d grab her, spank her, she knew it.

 _What was he thinking?_ Sansa tensed, ready. 

She was... wrong. 

She had _astoundingly_ miscalculated. 

Forgotten who she married. 

Petyr rocked back on his heels. 

“Well then, my sweet, that’s a terrible fate for a _lady.”_ Petyr’s face was impassive, detached, but for maybe a trace of pity. Cruel pity. For _her._ The implication being that women suffered under unhappy marriages, men did not. 

_No, no, no._

This had all taken a wrong turn. And quickly. 

Hot blood raced through her veins. 

She was supposed to incite him, not the other way around. 

“I’m sorry to hear of your misfortune. It would seem you have many unhappy days ahead.” 

He didn’t sound sorry. He _turned._ He walked to the door and _left._ As if to say, _I’ll leave you to them._

Sansa stared. She did not move a muscle. Her face, a carved mask. Inside, she felt differently. Fierce pride kept her from throwing the nearest object she could find, but she indulged the fantasy. 

_He just... turned the tables._

What had she thought? His feelings for her would cause him to rage? Throw things? Demand that she love him? 

What had she hoped to achieve? 

_Everyone wants something, Lady Sansa. And when you know what a man wants, you know who he is, and how to move him._

Words Petyr told her in the glass gardens of Winterfell, long ago. 

Only, she wasn’t being smart. She wasn’t playing a game to move him, using his affection for her to bend him. 

She had wanted to hurt him. As he hurt her. 

_Oh, Sansa, you fool._

_Worse._

She had wanted be that chink in his carefully crafted armor. To be the one thing to break the façade. To make him sort through the same convoluted mess of emotions he created in her. 

It was stupid. She was a stupid girl, not playing the game at all. But Petyr always was. 

And yet… he’d left. She must have done something to him. 

_Yes, you pushed him away._

But… that was a good thing. That was what she wanted, to be left alone. In that sense, she’d won. 

She’d _won._

Except. 

Except. 

It felt a lot like losing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to share that I went to the GoT Live Concert and if anyone is considering going, I *highly* recommend it! It was an amazing evening. 
> 
> Also, if there are any p x s fans out there who ever cosplay at other GoT events, or who want to go Aidan-stalking when he performs in plays/concerts (because I'd totally jump on a plane to Dublin anytime), chat me at this username on reddit! There are NEVER any Baelish fans at events. At least, none that I've met. (Unless it's a dude dressed as Petyr, and then, if you're dressed as Sansa, he's just trying to get into your pants... skirts... whatever.)


	19. Adrift

King Baelish did not return to their chambers, though Sansa waited on the edge of the bed, jumping with every sound outside the door. When she finally did fall asleep, it was in a chair an hour before sunrise, only to wake shortly thereafter. 

She dressed - she _must_ have - for she saw she wore a new gown, though she hardly remembered putting it on. But upon stepping outside her room, the ever-present guards informed her that King Petyr cancelled their morning council meetings. 

Indefinitely. 

_Cancelled for everyone, or just for me?_ she wondered.

Sansa could not say how she spent the rest of her day. She touched no food. She paced the Keep, lost in thought. Once, she ventured into the gardens, but they seemed too harsh, too bright, and she returned to the shadowy halls of the castle. 

Night came, but Littlefinger did not return with it. 

Nor did he return the following morning. 

Days passed in this manner, and Sansa felt adrift. 

_King’s Landing is not my home,_ she told herself. Petyr alone had tethered her there. 

_But,_ came unexpected the thought, _there is something more to it than geography._

However immodest it may be to acknowledge, Sansa knew she was one of the more resilient leaders of the North, and the craftiest Winterfell had seen in a long time. She was clever, determined, and wholly capable of handling command on her own. She’d been doing it for years, relying on herself, her own judgement. 

Only… with Petyr, it was just nice not to _have_ to. For _once_ in her life. To share that burden. 

He was smarter than she was, Sansa knew that, and it didn’t injure her ego. For one thing, Petyr had been in the capitol a lot longer than she had. For another, he had several years on her. Most importantly, though he teased her, he never belittled her lack of knowledge on any subject. To the contrary, he enjoyed being the one to teach her. 

For the first time in Sansa’s life, she had been able to exhale, lean back, and trust that everything wouldn’t fall apart if placed in someone else’s hands. Petyr’s hands, Petyr’s _mind,_ was more than skilled enough to carry it all through. 

However twisted, they’d _almost_ built a partnership she could rely upon. Maybe that very twisting -- bent and woven, coiled and entwined, even _strengthened_ it. 

If only she could _trust_ him to act in her best interest. 

If only she could _trust_ him not to betray her. 

Despite the warring thoughts in her head, without Petyr, Sansa wandered, feeling like every step might be her last one on solid ground. That the next would send her tumbling out and over a threshold, falling into nothing but air. 

She had never needed anyone before. The idea of needing _him,_ the King of Lies, snaked tendrils of fear up and around her heart. 

They strengthened her determination to escape. 

#

It had been a fortnight since Sansa had last seen Petyr. From what little she learned, the king was _ever so_ busy, tending to business on the outskirts of the capitol, or in holdfasts just outside the city walls.

On this particular sunny afternoon, Ros sat with Sansa, in the privacy of her bedroom. It _felt_ like Sansa’s room alone now, Petyr never having returned since their argument, not even to collect any papers from his desk. 

_At least, not that I have seen,_ she corrected. 

Ros held three vials in her hands, turning them in the sunlight. 

“Sweetsleep. Milk of the Poppy. And this is something special a, ah, retired maester concocted for us. It will cancel the odor of the other two, and help quicken the effects to the blood.” 

Sansa took the third vial and studied the clear liquid in her hands. 

“I don’t know that we need it,” she admitted, softly. “Petyr hasn’t… he’s been preoccupied on his tour of the rebuilding. He hasn’t returned to our chambers in some time.”

Ros titled her head, a simple, birdlike move that was somehow alluring as it swept her hair aside, revealing her long, pale neck. 

“Well. Best to have ready, just in case.”

“But how will we test the mixtures to know which is the most effective?” Sansa asked. 

Ros leaned forward, conspiratorially, “Oh, I’ve got that covered.” 

Sansa blinked slowly. “You can’t mean…”

Ros lifted her chin. “Only on the ones who are rough with the girls. We’ll divide different portions of each into samples we’ll track. We’ll give one of each to any lady who retires with any man of _questionable_ reputation. If she finds things getting out of hand, she’ll slip a drop or two of the potion into his wine.” Ros shrugged one pale, slim shoulder. “We’ll see how fast he sleeps, how long, and what he remembers when he wakes. Then we’ll use whichever concoction works the best.” 

Sansa nodded. It was a good plan. 

“Ros,” Sansa asked. “Did you find out who occupies the room below? Is it empty?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Ros said, shaking her head, but she smiled as she replied. “But I do know who sleeps there. Or, rather, who _doesn’t,_ until late in the night, as he can be found at one of our establishments” 

“Who?” Sansa asked, eyes wide.

“Ser Galwyn.” 

“Of the White Cloaks? But… they traditionally sleep in their own tower. And, what is he doing in a brothel? Shouldn’t the kingsgaurd be… chaste?” 

Ros laughed. “Under the reign of King Petyr Baelish? The king feels a more satisfied knight is a more steadfast knight.” 

Sansa nearly rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. _Of course he did._ And the coin went right back into his own pocket. 

“And, wisely,” Ros continued, “he had the white cloaks moved here for his, and your, own safety. Unfortunately, he didn’t count on Ser Galwyn being so taken with one of our girls of late. And while he’s usually a dependable soldier, I think we could manage to convince the knight to stay out a _little_ longer than planned, whichever night you need to escape. Thus ensuring the room is empty.” 

Sansa nodded, stomach fluttering in excitement. Her escape was coming together. All she needed now was to fashion a longer rope – the bedsheets she’d planned on using were neither strong enough, nor long enough – and to secure passage on the right ship. Freedom might only be weeks, or even _days_ away. 

#

The next morning, Sansa woke unusually early. She braided her hair and donned sturdy boots, determined to get back into the saddle. There would be no litters or carriages to carry her about once she escaped to the North. She would need to find her seat once more, and become accustomed to long and difficult rides, which, in truth, had never been one of her strengths. 

With her future journey in mind, she called the for the servants to ready her horse, and made her way out to the stables, trailed by her ever-present guard.

Her breath hitched when she saw him from across the courtyard. 

The dark, slim, silhouette of his back, dressed in black with a gold belt at his waist, surrounded by his own kingsguard, readying their mounts. 

She’d be lying if she said her heart didn’t thump. 

Something gave her away. The footfalls of her guard? The neigh of their horses? Some magic connection that alerted him to her presence? 

Either way, King Petyr paused. And Sansa _knew_ that _he_ knew, she was there. 

Petyr turned, his eyes immediately searing her in two, she wanted to run from them. The moment felt surreal. Sansa hadn’t seen Petyr in weeks, and now, out of nowhere, he suddenly stood before her. 

_What would he say? What would he do?_

_Where was he headed at this hour?_

Quieting every emotion inside, Sansa forced her back straight, her head even, her expression, masked. 

Petyr began walking slowly towards her. 

She inhaled deeply to steady herself, nostrils filling with the scent of horse, of hay, of the dewy grass of the early morning. 

_Everyone_ stilled, _everyone_ seemed to feel the tension in the air. 

_Gods, nothing is secret in a castle,_ Sansa thought. She wondered just how many rumors spread about she and Petyr, about how they no longer slept in the same room. 

Both Petyr’s guard and her own seemed to hold their breath. Some with voyeuristic pleasure to see what would transpire in the obviously strained relationship between the king and the queen. Gleeful to witness this moment, like gossipy young girls of court. 

Or maybe Sansa’s growing anxiousness just imagined it all. She couldn’t tell anymore. 

King Baelish moved with purpose, seeming just as likely to strike her as embrace her, though Sansa knew neither was a possible outcome. Above all else, Petyr was nothing if not restrained. 

In her own mind, she never knew which he most desired. What were they? Lovers? Rivals? Was there even a distinction when it came to the two of them? 

_Would he say… something?_

Her heart sped as he neared… 

Petyr reached, grasping her chin between his thumb and forefinger, as he’d done so many times before. Only now, more than ever, it felt like a display of power, so Sansa met the act with eyes glazed, hooded, proud. 

_What was he thinking behind those dark eyes?_ What was he _doing?_ It had been weeks since they had seen one another.

Petyr turned her head left, then right, studying Sansa with detachment. As if tilting the face of a serving girl he inspected for dirt. Sansa kept her expression blank, though the move deeply confused her. 

Suddenly, Petyr brought his right hand to Sansa’s ribcage, right below her breast, squeezing gently. 

Sansa tried to cover the small intake of breath the action caused, but swore a smile threatened to ghost Petyr’s lips. 

In her head she heard him taunt, _it’s only your body that responds to mine, right?_ But the words seemed to start in his voice, and end in hers, as if she convinced herself. 

Sansa bit the inside of her mouth in an effort to keep a straight face when Petyr brought his other hand to her left ribcage. The act felt experimental, testing. 

She could not stop the race of her heart when Petyr slid his elegant fingers to her waist and squeezed, harder now. But he somehow managed to make even that touch devoid of any intimacy -- as if she were livestock he inspected, a sow headed for sale on market day. 

Sansa ignored their audience, trained her eyes only on Petyr, completely perplexed by his actions.

Abruptly, he returned his hands to his sides. 

“The queen hasn’t eaten today,” he announced, for all the guard to hear. “She’ll return to her chambers, and will not be leaving until she finishes whatever tray the servants bring her.” He waved his hand at the word _whatever,_ to show he cared not what food the tray contained, so long as she ate its entirety. 

Petyr backed away, startling Sansa with the severity of his closure. 

He spoke once more, adding loudly, “See to it that the same is repeated tomorrow, and every day thereafter. The queen will no longer be leaving her room until her tray is cleared.”

Sansa’s mouth gaped, her face grew hot. So many retorts danced on the tip of her tongue, screaming to be released. It was the first time an emotion reflected in Petyr’s eyes, and she didn’t like what she saw. 

_Go ahead, sweetling,_ they challenged, knowing any reply she’d give wouldn’t just be to _Petyr,_ but to _the king,_ and that was a no-win situation, an uneven power dynamic clear to all who watched. 

Petyr turned on his heel, off to whatever building site, whatever meeting of import demanded the king’s attention… while Sansa stood reprimanded, treated as if she were a child, relegated to her room until she’d finished her morning porridge. 

He was right – she’d barely eaten since the night they argued. But if she wasn’t mistaken by the slimming of his already trim waist, he hadn’t touched much food either. 

With a simple act, Petyr had publicly seized and shifted power from her, reaffirming the monarchical hierarchy and her place in it. 

_No, not just now,_ she thought. With the cancellation of their council meetings, or at least his maneuvering her out of them, he’d stripped her of a voice in decisions of the realm, he diminished her power. 

Was this to ensure she couldn’t manipulate any of the guards to do her bidding? Or something more serious… some sort of declaration of war? Was he scheming himself to be everywhere; her, nowhere? Edging her out of court? 

A queen in name only, as Tyrion had once implied? 

Sansa watched Petyr easily mount his horse, with surprising grace for a man found more frequently by a book than by a battlefield. 

As he rode off, Sansa heard the familiar rustle of heavy robes behind her. 

“The King is quite busy these days,” she said quietly, trying and failing to cover her embarrassment. 

“Chaos only useful when it creates a ladder _you_ want to climb,” Varys replied. “When you’re responsible for restoring order or risking the creation of ladders for others, well…”

“Well,” Sansa said. “We can’t have the good King _Petyr the Prosperous_ keeping the lords and ladies from stumbling upon any ladders other than those he’s _intentionally_ planted as _distractions_ for them to climb. Or worse, failing to provide the distraction of growth, to keep the smallfolk from revolting.” 

Her words weren’t _entirely_ true. The growing market was real, more than a diversionary tactic, but Sansa wasn’t feeling particularly charitable at the moment. 

“You are a distraction,” Varys said, leaning the emphasis on the word _are_ in his particular way. “You are _his_ distraction.” 

Varys made the statement with a certain finality, as if in explanation of Petyr’s frequent absence. 

Sansa turned her head, slightly. “I thought you said I was good for him. You went so far as to imply I could reign in his worst impulses.” 

“You will, yet.” Then Varys shrugged and bowed in departure. “Although I’ve been known to be wrong before.” 

#

Sansa did not resist when she was escorted back to her room, choosing instead to maintain her dignity. And though she had no stomach, she forced herself to quickly eat every morsel of food laid upon the tray, eager to return to her mount and practice riding once more. 

But when she called for her horse, she was stopped by Ser Hughen, head of her guard. 

“His Grace would like to know why you seek to ride, my queen?” 

_Oh, would he?_

Sansa stared down the guard. 

That meant, at the very least, Petyr was closely watching her activities of the day. At worst, it meant he suspected she was up to something. Although seizing a mare and spiriting straight off from King’s Landing was not the plan. 

“I’m out of practice,” Sansa replied, thinking a hint of truth to be best. “Without council meetings to occupy my mornings, I grow tired cooped up in the castle. I should like to ride, explore more of the capitol.” 

Ser Hughen nodded, “I will let the king know.” 

But for the moment, he made no attempt to move. 

Sansa sighed deeply, shoulders falling. That meant there would be no ride today, not until Petyr considered her reply, and rendered judgement on its worth. 

#

The next day Sansa tried again, only to have Ser Hughen stop her before she even called for the stableboy. 

“King Petyr has decreed that if his queen would like to ride, he will be happy to oblige in escorting you, once his business is finished and he returns to the keep.” 

Sansa gritted her teeth. In other words, she was going nowhere without Petyr by her side. 

“And when will that be?” she asked. 

Ser Hughen shrugged his broad shoulders, his armor clanked with the gesture. “There’s much to be done in Duskendale Port.” 

Sansa licked her lips, surprised. So Petyr was in Duskendale. That was more information than she’d received in weeks. 

Rebuilding? Or rallying the common folk to his side – against her? Sansa couldn’t tell if there were lines being drawn in the sand, if Petyr was plotting something. Were they at war now, as they’d been so many years before? 

With luck, Sansa would escape, long before it came to that. But if not… it was best to prepare for all outcomes. 

Unfortunately, Sansa had a lot less to work with this time. Here, Petyr was king, all her power came through her marriage to him. In the North, Sansa’s decisions had been undisputed, final. 

It was a disadvantage… but it didn’t mean she was powerless. In fact, she might be able to turn it into an advantage. 

Cersei Lannister was famous for saying _tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon. The best one’s between your legs._

Sansa firmly disagreed. For one thing, she wasn’t known to cry, and Petyr would easily see through any false tears. 

_And as for what lay between my legs,_ Sansa thought, blushing, _that seems to be as much a weakness for Petyr as a liability for myself._ At least when it came to _his_ skillful attentions there. 

No, her most powerful weapons were not tears or tawdry temptations. They were the same as Petyr’s. 

Her hands, and her mind. 

And she didn’t need a king’s power to use them.


	20. To the Victor, the Throne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of scheming and politicking here, but...

Ser Hughen still blocked her exit, making it clear riding was not on the morning agenda.

“Perhaps His Grace would be so kind as to allow me to place orders for several bolts of cloth?” Sansa asked, sighing with exaggeration. “I grow bored without my king, without our work. I should like to sew some new dresses. Perhaps… perhaps I could even design a new cloak for the kingsgaurd.” 

Standing close enough to Ser Hughen to reach out and stroke the hem at his neck, Sansa said sweetly, “I have been thinking that a slight embellishment might improve upon the look. A bird for House Baelish, or a tree?” 

“I-I, we would be honored,” Ser Hughen stuttered. “To have the queen herself design our cloaks.” 

_Yes, that’s never been done before, has it?_

Sansa deepened her smile. “With summer coming, I must freshen my own wardrobe as well. Please ask my husband if he wouldn’t mind the placement of a large order of material?” 

She would need wool and leather, for certain. Braided, knotted, and tied tightly in the fashion of a rope. Strong enough to hold her as she lowered herself down one story. 

But heavy material alone would seem out of place in spring. Sansa might be able to convince Petyr she sewed gifts for those she’d left behind in the North, but she would definitely need to create dresses for herself as well. Sheer and gauzy slips in the new fashion, spun of silks and lace. Greens, grays, and blacks for House Baelish, especially to wear in the evenings. Pale lavenders, light blues, and some eye-catching golds, for day. 

Petyr couldn’t find anything wrong with that request. 

And when several crates arrived the following week, Sansa excitedly unpacked and began sewing, a ritual she commenced as soon as she rolled out of bed each morning, and ended each evening before she slipped beneath the covers. 

The rope was made in no time. Sansa stroked it longingly -- her line to freedom -- and hid it in the bottom of her wardrobe, beneath piles of random scraps. 

She turned her attention to the cloaks next, which were, in truth, much in need of an update. Sansa didn’t want to create anything so large as to distract from their shining length of pure white, flowing behind each knight as he walked -- just a slight improvement to catch the eye.

Choosing a silver thread, she worked around the top, flanking the guard’s back from shoulder-to-shoulder, high, near the neck. She crafted a scene of trees, to match the columns in the Great Hall. Of course, flying above the branches a mockingbird took wing, again echoing the design in the throne room. 

Only, this time, a small wolf ran between the trunks. 

With such elegant embroidery, how could the guard refuse? And why would they concern the king with such insignificant, such womanly matters, as patterns and cloaks? 

It was subtle, it was spiteful, but it was also insidiously sneaky to have the Stark sigil flank the back of every guard. Sansa took as much pleasure from the act of spreading the direwolf throughout royal attire, as she did from the knowledge of how it would vex Petyr. 

The flow which swept through Sansa’s mind as she stitched enabled her to do some of her best thinking, and, troubled that Petyr plotted to weaken her power, she considered schemes to win mass favor. 

She’d begin foiling Littlefinger not with the smallfolk or the great ladies of Westeros – although she’d need them soon enough. 

She’d begin where most delightful trouble usually began. 

At the whorehouse. 

#

 _Thank goodness for Ros._ Sansa thought. _If I were staying, I’d promote her, or give her enough gold to never need to work again._

“What happens to the women who age out of the work in the brothels?” Sansa asked. 

“Some go on to marry,” Ros answered, from her seat across the table on the bedroom terrace. 

“Really?” Sansa said, surprised. “I wouldn’t have thought…”

Ros laughed. “Once a man is entranced, he cares little for how many came before him, so long as none come after. A number of our best girls marry their favorite customer, and retire to a life in the country.” 

“And the others? Those who do not?” 

Ros’s smile faded. “Some find shelter with friends or family. Some are lucky enough to find employment in another line of work. Some… meet less kind fates.” 

Sansa sat forward, templing her fingers. 

“I want to set up a… children’s home, of sorts,” she said. “For the bastards. A place of care. Where women can safely leave their babies when they return to work.” 

“I’m sure the women who… age out… don’t wake up one day and find they’re no longer called upon?” Sansa asked, delicately. “There is probably a decline in… requests. Therefore, some of the older women could work in the nursery. Some might become midwives, to help the ladies give birth… or some might find another calling altogether. What if we set up an apprenticeship program during their older years? Perhaps they learn a trade, such as baking or farming?” 

“And who will pay for all this training?” Ros inquired.

“It will come out of the brothel profits,” Sansa replied.

“Petyr won’t like it,” Ros said, but it sounded more like, _Petyr will in no way abide it._

“It will attract the most talented whores to work at your establishments,” Sansa argued. “Make your brothels the best there are.”

“We’re already the best there are,” Ros replied, dryly. 

“Well,” Sansa shrugged. “It’s not like Petyr can say anything about it.” 

She leaned back and placed her hands on the arm rests. “First of all, the king has no obvious business in whoring. And even if he did, how could he speak out against helping those unfortunate babies? Once it’s publicly decreed, he can in no way retract the plan and maintain any goodwill.” 

“Most importantly,” Sansa noted, “all the ladies of the great houses are behind the idea. They’ve become fiercely competitive, sending aid, sewing blankets and baby clothes for those poor, bastard children. It’s almost as if the house with the most wealth proves it by making the most charitable donations. The women are _toppling_ over one another in an effort to prove themselves.” 

“Are they?” Ros asked, arching an eyebrow. 

“They will be by this time next week,” Sansa replied, one side of her lips curling. 

Ros shook her head. “Remind me never to underestimate you.” 

“I could say the same,” Sansa replied, and it was the first time she’d ever seen the bawdy redhead blush. 

“I have good news,” Ros said, changing the subject. Then she smiled and paused, clearly eager to share with Sansa and drawling out the moment. 

Sansa’s heart skipped a beat, she dared not hope… 

“I know the way out of the tunnels. They lead to the bay. _And_ I found a ship to carry you to White Harbor. They don’t sail yet,” Ros quickly added, “but that’s okay, as it will give us a few more weeks to perfect the sleeping draught.” 

“Weeks?” Sansa whispered, heart sinking. 

“Maybe longer,” Ros admitted. “Strictly speaking… the ship isn’t yet in the harbor. I’ve been in contact with some sailors who are loyal to the North, and the North alone. The ship travels up and back, in a cycle, and it’s currently in White Harbor now. When it returns, they can smuggle you aboard.” 

She reached out and touched a strand of Sansa’s hair. “You’ll need a bit of hair dye. The tall, redheaded queen is easily recognized under any circumstances, and I don’t know how many men you could trust on this ship not to betray you back to the king.” 

Ros cocked her head and asked, “Are you sure you can climb down the balcony?” 

Just the mention of the act made Sansa’s stomach quiver. 

“No. But what choice do I have? Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? If I fall, I’ll hit the other terrace and maybe break my legs, an arm.” 

“And what will the king do to you, if he finds you half broken on a terrace, trying to escape?” 

Sansa pursed her lips and did not reply. She didn’t know. And she certainly didn’t want to guess. But there was one matter more important than her own safety. 

“And Arya?” she asked, tentatively. “Can you reach her… before he does?” 

Sansa was sure Petyr wouldn’t hurt her, despite his threats, if only for the fact that Arya was too valuable. And he couldn’t use Arya to find her, as Sansa didn’t plan on letting her sister know where she’d gone. But she couldn’t be sure Petyr wouldn’t find _some_ way to manipulate her sister, to capture Arya and use her as a hostage somehow. 

Sansa needed Ros to alert Arya to leave her ships _before_ Petyr turned his men on her.

The first complication was that they couldn’t risk sending word too soon beforehand, in case it fell into the wrong hands and foiled Sansa’s plans. The second was the fact that Arya never stayed in one place for very long. 

Everything depended on Ros being able to facilitate Arya’s disappearance, just about the same time as Sansa’s. 

The last thing Sansa wanted to do was exchange her captivity for her sister’s. 

#

 _If I were ever queen, I would make them love me,_ Sansa had once thought. 

Now she was queen, and all she’d done was try to leave. Well. And many unmentionable things in bed with Petyr, but she tried not to think about that. 

It was time to do something else.

Sansa had taken a page from the late Queen Margeary’s book when she’d set up care for the bastards and brothel workers, and it worked even better than expected. The smallfolk spread tales of her mercy, her charity, her beauty. She _inspired_ them, she was beginning to win them. 

As expected, the noblewomen clamored over each other to win favor by being the most fervent supporter of her plan. In truth, some of this was due to the sudden interest Sansa had shown in friendliness, after months of neglect. 

The lack of attention was a blunder she would not be repeating. 

Sansa remembered her lie to Tyrion, about giving the women of court a tour of the castle, based on her readings from the _Art and Architecture_ book. 

Why not make it true? What better way to gather allies to her side than through enviable, choice outings with the Queen? 

#

“…and this room has been empty for far too long,” Sansa said, sweeping her hand to indicate the bereft stone chamber, adjacent to the castle library. 

“A new era has begun under House Baelish. Some of you come from ancient houses, some of you are only now just beginning.” She smiled warmly as she spoke, turning her head to address everyone in the room. 

“I think we should catalogue your histories here. In what will become, the _Hall of Great Houses._ Each of you will be given a portion to document your lineage. You may cover the walls with tapestries of your ancestors, fill books with the great deeds of your families, preserve artifacts if you like. So that generations may come, and look upon your histories. Forever recorded and proudly displayed, right here in the castle, just down the hall from the Throne Room.” 

Sansa began to fidget with the gray diamond ring Petyr had given her, turning it in circles. The next part was a bald lie. There was no way to carry out this part of her plan. But it needed to be said. 

“Also, I am so pleased to announce the King and I have decided that all of our future children will be raised, in part, alongside some of your own. Any lord or lady who has a son or daughter of an eligible age will be considered for the opportunity to come to King’s Landing, for a time, to be fostered beside the future Baelish princes and princesses.” 

Sansa’s words had an immediate effect. The women’s eyes widened in delight, their faces beamed, they whispered excitedly amongst themselves. Several of the more sly would no doubt attempt to plan their pregnancies in line with her own, vying for a favored spot, a chance to become a friend to the future king, or his brothers and sisters. 

Petyr wouldn’t dispute the plan. It worked both ways. 

For House Baelish, it fostered a friendship, which ensured house loyalty for years to come. It would also give their (supposed) offspring the opportunity to gauge who would make the best council, which men could be best relied upon for wisdom, for courage, for loyalty… and who might turn into a future risk. 

#

_“Always keep your foes confused. If they are never certain who you are or what you want, they cannot know what you are like to do next. Sometimes the best way to baffle them is to make moves that have no purpose, or even seem to work against you.”_

Another of Petyr’s many lessons. 

_He thinks I plan to steal a horse and run?_

Well. _What would he think of me entertaining the ladies with something more… physical?_

Sword play would be too aggressive, that wouldn’t do. Perhaps crossbows? Or maybe a trip to the dodgy outskirts of town, to the tanneries? She’d come up with some catchy name, like _Tanneries and Tea_ or _Crossbows and Cross-stitch._ An inspired diversion for both bored courtiers seeking adventure as well as ladies more suited to gossip over lemon cakes with the queen. 

Littlefinger would be thoroughly confused as to her intent. Mind racing in all directions, he’d bulk up guard patrols on the outskirts of town, where the tanners worked. Sansa grinned, imagining with crystal clarity, Petyr receiving reports on her business and narrowing his eyes as he wondered what she game she played. 

When really, the answer was, none at all -- other than deepening her friendships with the noblewomen in the manner to most confound her husband. 

Now that she thought about it, it _would_ be helpful to concentrate on Dorne and Highgarden. 

Petyr would suspect she’d face her attention North. But the Riverlands suffered more destruction and disorder than even The Reach, most of the land wars having been fought mid-realm… and the Vale seizing more and more ground in the process. Lysa under Petyr’s direction, no doubt. _Which, come to think of it, what had he been telling her aunt to keep her at bay?_

Regardless, while Winterfell and the Iron Islands were currently of little help, if there ever came a dire need down the line, these territories were her natural allies. She could shift power if it came to that. 

On the other hand, she had no relations or claims in Dorne or Highgarden. 

Though they seemed dissimilar on the surface, Sansa felt both areas were also natural allies to one other. They just needed a push in that direction. 

While the women of Dorne were more overtly in charge of their destinies - wielding swords and spears - Highgarden had always been a secret matriarchy, women controlling the power behind the scenes. Their methods to gain autonomy and influence were different, but Sansa thought them rather complementary. 

If Petyr planned to “build up” someone from Highgarden to take over as Master or War, she could “build up” just as many women to pull his strings. 

The image of another woman, skilled in manipulation, made Sansa wonder… would Petyr quickly remarry after she went missing? Surely, their marriage would be annulled. Then dozens of women would be clamoring to marry the king. 

_Good,_ Sansa thought. _Fools. Let them. I don’t care._

#

“Your Grace,” Sansa heard the familiar voice of Ros and turned. The redhead kept her tone formal, out in the open. 

Sansa had been surveying her garden party, pleased. A moon’s turn had passed since she’d last seen the king and began working with the noblewomen. 

Petyr made no obvious moves against her. Nor meddled further in anything she did, other than to have the guards follow her at all times, and disallow any letters or ravens from being sent or received. But he was never to be found, not even by Ros. It made no sense. 

_So he must be up to something horrible._

In the ladies before her now, Sansa felt a true optimism about the future; all the great houses eager to put the wars and despair of the past behind them.

At that very moment, she spied a few women by the rosebushes wearing favored tokens she’d sewn herself – scarves with a design echoing that of the white cloaks: trees, mockingbird, and direwolf running through the forest. 

She might be a Baelish. But she was also a Stark. 

Each evening, Sansa chose a woman to dine by her side. The guest of honor might be high born, or low, a merchant’s wife, or a scullery maid. Just as her father had done nightly in Winterfell, so many years ago. 

The smallfolk sung her praises as much as Petyr’s, if not more. The great ladies united behind her. Many (though not all) in genuine friendship and loyalty. Sansa had so many more plans, it was almost a shame she wasn’t staying to reign. Almost. 

She raised her hand, indicating to Ros that she could sit and speak freely from their position in the garden – near enough to be with the other noblewomen, but far away from Varys’s spies. Or any others, for that matter. 

Ros licked her lips in excitement, bent her head low. 

“The ship leaves tonight,” she said. 

Sansa blinked and tried to purse her lips against a smile. She dared not speak in return, only nodded. There would be final plans to discuss – later. 

“Come to my room after sunset,” Sansa whispered. “We’ll talk then.” 

Ros shared one of her charming smiles and clasped Sansa’s hand tightly before departing.

Sansa lifted her head to the sky, closing her eyes against the sun, beaming down. Sansa beamed back in return. 

_Freedom._ Freedom was only hours away. 

She re-joined the ladies and did her best to temper her giddiness, though she often broke out in a smile as she gazed in the distance, toward the sea. 

Unfortunately, Sansa was forced to return to the keep when the sudden, heavy clouds rolled in. 

They brought with them an early dusk. 

And a startling wind that sent shutters banging and branches falling. 

Then, a merciless, torrid rain broke, quickly becoming the worst storm King’s Landing had seen in years.

Sansa watched with a heavy heart from behind the terrace doors in her bedroom. A part of her was mesmerized by the fury of the storm. When the thunder rolled it seemed to shake the castle, when the lightening flashed, it reached across the sky with a godslike display of power. 

No ships would depart that night. Many of them would even be destroyed by morning. 

#

Sansa jumped at the knock on her door, and quickly re-tied her robe. She had opened it, allowing some of the rain to splash her skin, from a safe distance behind the terrace walls. In awe of the storm, despite her annoyance. 

“Yes?” she asked. 

Tyrion appeared in her doorway, holding a bottle of Arbor Gold. 

“Care to share a drink, my queen?”

No, she noticed he held _two_ bottles.

 _Why not?_ She wasn’t going anywhere tonight. 

“That sounds like just what I need,” Sansa replied. 

She meant it due to her delayed escape, not the storm, though she assumed Tyrion would take it that way. 

#

“I love horses, I take after my mother more than my father, and… lemon cakes are my favorite.” 

Sansa laughed. They were playing a drinking game Tyrion had invented, where a player had to make three statements about themselves – two truthful, and one a lie. But after so many glasses of wine, she’d been unable to think up anything creative for her third statement. 

“You’re trying to trick me,” Tyrion said, eyes brimming with cunning as he worked his jaw. “It won’t work. The lie is you love horses.” 

“Wrong!” Sansa exclaimed. 

“But you’re a terrible rider,” Tyrion countered. “Middling, at best.” 

“Doesn’t mean I don’t love the animal,” Sansa said, matter-of-fact. 

Tyrion took a sip and sat back. “So, you take after your father, not your mother…” he mused. 

Even though she’d won, Sansa took a sip of wine herself. She’d been doing that often. 

After a moment of silence, Sansa noticed that Tyrion quietly studied her. 

“What?” she finally asked, laughing. She brought her hand to her chin. “Have I spilled wine on my face?” 

“I have news, from Winterfell.” Tyrion said slowly, spinning his glass in his hands. 

Sansa’s smile immediately dropped. 

Tyrion put down the glass and rubbed his beard. “Less from Winterfell and more from the council room.”

Sansa sat back, feeling as if she immediately began to sober. 

“So Petyr’s been having meetings without me.” 

_I knew it._

“Yes. No,” Tyrion made an apologetic face and said, “not so much meetings as, plans. With me. And occasionally Varys.” 

Sansa afforded Tyrion one of her ice stars. “That sounds like a council meeting.” 

“He didn’t want you to know… he doesn’t want you to know-”

“Know _what?”_ Sansa demanded. 

Tyrion looked up at her. 

“King Petyr has legitimized your half-brother.”

Sansa blinked. She couldn’t have heard correctly. “Jon? But… why?”

“He’s a Stark now. Lord of Winterfell. Actually, the Prince of Winterfell, they call him. He’s the Prince in the North.” 

Sansa brought a hand to her mouth. “That... no. That’s impossible. Jon would have had to leave the Night’s Watch and he’d never dishonor his vows.” 

_Did Petyr suspect her escaping through Castle Black? Was he trying to cut her off from her allies?_

“And what do you mean, _prince?_ Are you saying he’s elevated the title?” 

“It’s complicated, you see-”

Sansa cut Tyrion off once more, this time laughing, without mirth. 

_Of course it is._ Tricksters needed complication to create a smokescreen, to divert the eye. 

She held up one hand. 

“Just answer one question. Does that mean the North is free?” 

“No,” Tyrion admitted. “But, it means they might be free to choose. Someday. Possibly.” 

Changing direction, he asked, “Since when was being an independent kingdom ever on the table to begin with?”

“Since Petyr couldn’t be trusted to keep his word,” Sansa said. 

“It’s a much better offer than you originally negotiated,” Tyrion replied, “With this move, Petyr disadvantaged his position-”

 _“Disadvantaged his position?”_ the wine roused her, Sansa would not allow the imp to finish a sentence. 

“He kidnapped me, forced me to marry him, betrayed our deal - and to make amends _he disadvantaged his position?”_

“From a man like Littlefinger that’s no small penance. Think about it. He may have altered the course of history. He could be the king who set in motion the terms to losing the North.”

“You don’t know Petyr the way I do,” Sansa said. “He’ll stop at nothing. He’s always scheming, manipulating. Toying with nobles, moving kingdoms, bending the realm, doing unimaginable things to get what he wants.” 

“Yes, he is,” Tyrion replied, staring hard. “You.”

Sansa sucked in a breath at that. 

_Don’t be fooled._

“I won’t hear more of it,” she insisted, pushing away from the table. “In fact, don’t even tell him you told me. I want to hear this… story from his mouth, see where I can catch his lies…” 

Sansa thought of something else. As usual, the wine slowed her wit. 

“Wait, this is all under his orders anyway, isn’t it? A part of his plan, for you to break the news of… whatever lie he’s concocted this time? Why _are_ you telling me all this?”

Tyrion looked toward the terrace, out to the storm, and spoke slowly. 

“Because I know what it looks like, I know what it _feels_ like,” he corrected, “to love someone you’re not sure loves you in return, or wants you only for something else.” 

Sansa’s mouth parted and she stopped thinking of herself, catching the anguish in Tyrion’s eyes. It was out of the ordinary for him to come to her chambers to drink. She had begun to assume it was part of a ploy, but perhaps… Tyrion was avoiding returning to his own room. There was a girl, a whore, Sansa remembered. What was her name? 

_Shae._

With everyone unable to leave the keep, she’d no doubt be waiting for him. Perhaps fears and self-doubt had crept up, and Tyrion had begun to question her intentions. Perhaps they’d had an argument and he was avoiding this woman. 

_Like Petyr was avoiding her?_

_Wait,_ who did Tyrion mean when said he knew what it looked like to love someone when you were unsure of them loving you back? _She or Petyr?_

Sansa shook her head to clear it, feeling guilty that she’d brought the thinking back to herself, and anyway, _forget Petyr, fuck Petyr,_ after all he’d done to betray her.

She held Tyrion’s eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

Her voice came out thick, deep. She meant it. 

The imp smiled, though it was grim. He picked himself up to leave. 

“I’ll speak no more of it, you have my word. Of course, I ask for your discretion in return?”

“Of course,” Sansa pledged. She didn’t know if she could trust Tyrion, but she meant to keep her word. 

After he left, Sansa stood by the terrace once more, alone with the howling wind and pelting rain. They’d finished a bottle and a half of wine. Though Tyrion had done the bulk of the drinking, Sansa had her fair share. She didn’t feel drowsy at all, instead, the alcohol and the storm set her to restlessness. 

Without giving it much thought, she threw open her bedroom door. 

The guards snapped to attention. 

“I’m going for a walk,” she announced, and was sober enough to realize it sounded a little odd. 

Sansa padded down the hallway, rolling her eyes as she heard the soldiers fall into line behind her. 

She figured she must have made a sight, the pale queen dressed only in her robe, barefoot, damp from the rain. Like a ghost haunting the halls of the keep as the worst storm in memory raged outside the windows. 

_Petyr legitimizing Jon,_ she repeated as she walked. _And a prince? Ridiculous._ Jon would never betray his honor and leave the Night’s Watch. And even if there was some truth to Tyrion’s words, Petyr always had an insidious, hidden purpose. 

_And she, in love?_ Tyrion’s mouth spouted just as much ridiculousness _out,_ as wine it took _in._

_Only a fool would trust Littlefinger._ And she was no fool. _And only a fool would love without trust._

Leaving the keep wasn’t an option, but Sansa didn’t know where she was headed until she got there. 

The Throne Room. 

Nearing the doors, she wasn’t even sure what brought her there. Except, perhaps, the power of the Great Hall seemed to match the power of the storm, and it drew her near.

Sansa sucked in a sharp breath as soon as she entered, failing, as ever, to hide her emotions – at least, where _he_ was concerned. 

She blinked rapidly, attempting to clear the vision before her. 

King Baelish sat upon the throne, dressed in his finest black robes. And though the hour was late, he still wore his silver crown, as if holding court. 

…holding court, while deep in his cups. 

A bottle sat, half-empty beside the throne. He held a glass of red wine in his right hand.

Sansa hadn’t known he’d returned to the castle or she could have guessed he’d be lurking somewhere. The storm trapped everyone inside. 

_Seven hells, was the entire castle up drinking tonight?_

Lightening flashed eerie colors through the tall, stained-glass windows, and when they danced with the fires blazing at the base of every pillar, they cast a supernatural aura to the cavernous space. 

Petyr looked up as soon as she’d entered, and Sansa’s heart sputtered at the sinister picture he made, at the wicked way he stared. 

_Gods dammit._

He’d always done that. Ravished her with his gaze. If it were possible for a _look_ alone to bend her over and ruthlessly fuck her, Petyr managed it, just with his eyes. 

From the very beginning, he’d done that. 

A series of moments flashed in Sansa’s mind, detaching her from the present as her feet carried her forward. Toward him, without her command. 

First came the presumptuous, slightly younger Lord Baelish -- lifting his glass in greeting to the naïve Lady Sansa in the great hall of Winterfell, so many years ago.

Then their second meeting -- King Petyr, her arrogant rival, languidly awaiting her entrance as his prisoner five years later, sitting the Iron Throne in all his finery. 

Last, Petyr -- her bridegroom, smoldering sun outlining his form at the end of a path high above the sea; smile just a bit too cocky to be proper, as he watched for her on their wedding day. 

_Always_ his eyes upon her, _always_ her heart thumping when she saw him. The constant in each vision. 

Oh yes, oh fuck, her _heart._

_Fuck._

She was a stupid, stupid girl for not knowing. 

On the other hand, she almost laughed at the irony. 

She was better than Petyr. Better than anyone. _The best liar of all._

She’d been lying to _herself_ for years. 

She’d been madly in love with Petyr Baelish since she laid eyes on him. She’d been in the seventh hell since they met. 

_Oh, gods dammit._

Sansa could hardly breathe at the realization. 

She had to escape. Now more than ever. For her own safety. 

She vowed this, even as her feet carried her nearer the throne. 

Nothing in the world could be more dangerous than loving a man like Littlefinger. 

_Was it the sudden knowledge written on her stunned face?_

Did it give Petyr permission to proceed? 

Sansa liked to think so. Because no words were said, and the alternative was that Petyr simply refused to wait any longer. 

The glass slipped from his hands. It seemed to happen in slow-motion, reminding Sansa of when she’d dropped her goblet of wine at their wedding, upon learning the truth of Petyr’s deceptions. Only then, her goblet had been silver, and this time, when the glass hit the tile beside the throne it shattered. 

Everything, _everything_ shattered with it. 

Petyr pushed off his chair, dark eyes trained on Sansa. He descended the stairs leading up to the throne, and Sansa couldn’t help it – she ran to meet him as if she were pulled.

She had to escape, _later. Tomorrow._

_Not now. Now only…_

_Petyr._

His lips crushed hers, his tongue forced its way deep into her mouth. Sansa’s heart swelled, it _hurt_ with longing, she wanted to hold this moment and kiss him forever.

The echo of doors slamming reached her ears. She assumed the guards bolted from the room to give immediate privacy. 

Sansa tore at Petyr in desperation, clinging to his robes, pulling at his hair, trying to press as close as humanly possible… 

Or attempting to, as her thinner limbs seemed to flail and fail against his consuming desire. Petyr had come upon Sansa like a great wave, she felt hopelessly engulfed by it as he swept her into his arms, tossed her up. _Carried her,_ despite not being on overly-large man. He pressed her against his chest, his hands in her hair, then down her back, lifting her, moving her… somewhere… she didn’t know, she didn’t care, she might as well have been flying for as light and free as she soared. 

_Petyr, Petyr,_ his name repeated in her mind, her heart beat to the sound of it. 

Sansa felt something cold and hard beneath her. 

The Iron Throne. 

Petyr had seated on the throne, falling to his knees before her. But any hint of supplication dissipated when he pushed aside her robe and tore her shift from neck to hem, ripping it in two. Sansa gasped, more from surprise than desire. 

His tongue came out in that hungry way of his when he saw she wasn’t wearing any small clothes, and it made Sansa’s stomach flip in anticipation. 

Petyr pushed and held her knees apart, forcefully. As if Sansa had any intention, as if she could muster any will to stop him. 

For a moment, Sansa felt the cold air on her exposed sex. 

Until Petyr clamped his mouth down on her. 

Sansa arched into his tongue, crying out a moan that echoed so lewdly throughout the hall, she brought her hand to her mouth to bite down against another. 

It had been so long, she wouldn’t need much… she pushed her hips up into Petyr’s mouth. 

“Yes…” she moaned, over and over. “Petyr, I-”

Sansa didn’t even know what she was going to say, it was half-mindless mumbling. 

Petyr stopped. Removed his head. 

She groaned at the loss of his tongue. 

“You what, my love? You want to come?” Petyr asked. Sansa forced herself to focus, she looked down at Petyr. His lips glistened with her own wetness, making his smile more fiendish than ever. 

She nodded, panting. 

“No, Sansa,” Petyr whispered. _“Enough.”_

He pushed her legs wider and backed up. He gripped her thighs low, close to her knees. 

“The next time you come it will be with my cock inside you, or you won’t come at all.” 

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, cheeks coloring at his words, but writhing all the same. 

“Keep your legs wide. Squirm all you like. I can see your wetness. It’s dripping right onto the throne.” 

Sansa wanted to cover her ears. But Petyr teased one finger over her clit and she thrust up, chasing more, only to be left, spread and longing again. 

“Tonight, we are going to fuck, do you understand?” His hands gripped her legs harder, Sansa thought he might _want_ to mark her. 

“Or else your legs can stay open, waiting. Until I say you can close them. Or I may just leave you here, alone and spread. If I have to call the guards in to make sure you don’t touch yourself, I don’t care how embarrassed it makes you, I will. Are we clear?” 

_He wouldn’t._

Petyr dipped one finger into her, not enough to fulfill, only leaving her groaning, wanting more. 

He backed up, making to leave, and she grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back to her. 

Sansa didn’t realize she tossed her head back-and-forth until he clamped one hand around her face, clasping her chin and cheeks, holding it still. 

She locked eyes with Petyr. It was one of the most intense things they did, and they did it without even touching. But now, the way he held her in place with his hand, _while_ staring, was more than she could handle. 

_Oh, gods help her, she wanted him inside her. She did._

Sansa swallowed, and nodded. 

“Say it.” Petyr growled. “Say you want me to fuck you. Say you want me to take that precious maidenhead of yours right here on the Iron Throne. Beg for it.” 

He circled his finger around her nub and she moaned, desperately needing fulfillment, wanting him inside her so badly her skin heated feverishly from head-to-toe.

Petyr’s desire for her burned so ceaselessly, so bright, that even when she thought herself cold, dry, it was as if she were nothing more than kindling, ready to catch flame whenever his hands seared a path along her skin. 

When Sansa didn’t reply, Petyr dipped his fingers inside her a few times, curled them, and pulled out again. The torture drove her mad. 

_What was one night?_ She’d leave tomorrow. She’d be safe tomorrow. 

_Damn the wine._

“Yes…” Sansa whispered. 

“Say it,” Petyr repeated. 

Sansa licked her lips, her mouth had grown dry. 

“Which of us is the incorrigible one again?” she groaned. 

“Both,” he rasped. 

_Gods, she wanted him to fuck her._

“P- Please, fuck me…” Sansa stammered, the words sounding like they came from someone else. Her hips rocked up-and-down, seeking pressure and finding only empty air.

“All of it,” he commanded. 

Sansa couldn’t even remember all of what he wanted her to say, but the ache in her sex told her mind to say whatever in seven hells he wanted to hear. 

“Lord Baelish… King Petyr… fuck me,” her cheeks burned, but not enough to stop. “I want you to t-take my maidenhead. Right here on your Iron Throne.” Her face grew hotter still, gods, was that _submissive_ enough? 

“Please, I’m begging you,” she added, to be sure she’d covered it all. 

Sansa was too lost in desire to pay attention to whatever victory or exultation she was sure flashed across his face. And then she was shocked to feel Petyr’s hands on her sides, lifting and turning her. She didn’t know what she expected -- he couldn’t enter her from the position she was in, and he certainly wasn’t going to allow her to set an easy pace by being on top their first time. 

Still, she was surprised to feel herself flipped onto her knees, set upon the hard seat of the throne. Her hands braced lightly, carefully, against the chair’s sharp back. 

She heard Petyr remove his clothes, pausing to run a free hand through her hair or down her back whenever he could. A moment later, she felt the warmth of his body press against her.

Sansa let her head fall back and Petyr brought his lips to her mouth, kissing, while his hand slid down and teased her clit. 

Sansa was embarrassingly wet, she could feel it run down her legs. She’d never been more aroused in her life. No reason, no logic, could stop her from fucking the man she knew she shouldn’t. The man she wanted more than anything. 

She whimpered when she lost the pressure of Petyr’s fingers. 

But then, he titled her slightly forward and placed his hands on her hips. 

Petyr pulled her back the same time he thrust himself forward - deep inside her with one hard stroke.


	21. Your Darkest Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shamefully high drama ahead. 
> 
> Once more, I had to split this chapter. I don't like ending it here, breaking the flow, but it got long and the second part is incomplete. Should be ready in a few days, though!

Sansa jerked forward at the pain, forcing her shoulder to wedge against the chairback. 

But her action only pressed sensitive flesh to sword's edge, and she instantly pushed back, impaling herself deeper onto Petyr once more. 

_How fitting,_ she thought, through a familiar rise of panic.

The wine and her wetness might have dulled the pain, though not as much as she imagined. It wasn’t sharp -- she couldn’t tell if Petyr actually did pierce any maidenhead or not – but rather as if she were stretching beyond capacity. 

She felt his hot breath against her ear. 

“Are you alright?” he whispered. Tender. Surprisingly. 

She realized he was barely moving. Petyr couldn’t seem to remain _totally_ motionless, but rocked only slightly. As close to immobile as possible, without actually being entirely still.

Sansa grimaced, nodded. She didn’t know why she lied, only, she didn’t want her first time to be a discussion on the pain. 

Maybe he read the tension in her shoulders. Petyr naturally knew, despite her denial. He didn’t pull her hips again, his hands rested gently on her sides. 

“Shh… sweetling,” he whispered. “I’ll go slow.” 

And he did, inching deeper into her, then back out again, until Sansa gradually began to adjust. She heard Petyr swear under his breath, a curse of tortured bliss, and it made her smile. 

She couldn’t say how many seconds passed, but just as on their wedding night, the feeling changed, the pain ebbed. Until, with each thrust forward, Sansa felt pleasure; with each pull back an ache, a need. 

Petyr pushed faster when Sansa moved her own hips, grinding back, pressing her ass to his thighs. 

“Harder.” she groaned. 

Petyr was happy to oblige; his next push took her breath away. Outside of an orgasm, Sansa thought it the best sensation she’d ever felt in her life. Indisputably. 

She threw her head back and wiggled, wanting more. Petyr bucked, thrusting into Sansa in a manner that filled her, thrilled her, that hit a secret place of nerves deep within. Each time Sansa arched up against him, squeezed tighter around his cock. 

“Sansa, I can’t-” he groaned. 

_He can’t hold back,_ Sansa thought. The ever-restrained King Petyr had all the control of a little boy, his first time inside her. 

It amused her and excited her. She felt powerful, beautiful, desirable. 

It heightened her own arousal, yet she couldn’t stay trained on the thought. She had been so close to the edge when Petyr was kissing her cunt, but now there were too many feelings racing in her mind to reign in one direction, towards climax. Terrified of what she felt for Petyr, awed at the experience of her first time, Sansa fought to stay in the moment. 

Petyr pressed his fingers against her clit, _instantly_ commanding her attention. 

_“Oh,”_ she gasped. 

She had thought it couldn’t get any better, and it _had._

_This. This must be the most pleasurable sensation ever possible,_ she thought. 

Much like when Petyr brought his fingers to her at the same time as his mouth, only now the pressure was harder, fuller, with his cock satisfying the need deep within, and his fingers expertly coaxing the most wonderful sensations from her clit. 

“Please..” Sansa moaned, “just…a little bit more.” 

“Sansa,” Petyr whispered her name and her eyes flew open. His tone - menacing, taunting - warned her he was up to no good. 

“You’re forever mine now. How does it feel? To know you belong to me? To know I’m taking you on the Iron Throne? Maybe one day you’ll even sit it in my stead. But you’ll always remember, this is where I first fucked you. Bent over. Marking you forever as mine.” 

Sansa groaned and her eyes fluttered closed. She understood what he was doing. Saying dirty things to make her come. 

And it was working. His fingers, his cock, his words. Gods, there was no escaping Petyr, he infiltrated every part of her, inside and out, body and mind.

He was still saying shamefully lewd things, sure to redden her cheeks, but she could no longer distinguish the sentences when she felt her orgasm - once a thing she chased - now engulfing her without any ability to stop it if she wanted to. 

Sansa hadn’t engaged in the use of addictive substances, but she couldn’t imagine any drug being better than this. She never felt more powerless, succumbing to this carnal lust she shared with Petyr. Her mind rolled with such exquisite delight, she could have sworn it sorcery. How else to explain that it felt like sin and salvation, all at once? 

Sansa’s arm shot out, grabbing high the chair’s back as she came. Petyr did not hesitate to let go when she did, possibly even before, since he always knew when she was seconds away. 

Somewhere in Sansa’s mind she was conscious of his hand covering hers, entwining, clutching and cutting their palms together on the blades of the chairback. But Sansa didn’t care if she bled. 

The pain was nothing compared to the shuddering orgasm wracking her body. 

She wasn’t sure who finished first, only that after some time she felt Petyr’s body move in deep, heaving breaths, up-and-down, along with hers. 

They were sweaty, sticky with their own juices, and yes… there was some blood too. From her sex, possibly, but definitely their hands. Her brain registered the sting of the cuts and still she did not care. Their combined wetness dripped down her legs, onto the throne. She wondered how long her cunt would remain sore, as a reminder. 

Petyr brought Sansa’s hand down and crossed her arms over opposite sides of her body, wrapping all of her to him, caging her in his arms. Like it still wasn’t enough, like he’d claimed the rights of a husband, claimed her first time, and _still_ wanted to possess her more. 

Her hands bled, her sex bled, her _heart_ bled. 

_I love you, Petyr,_ she thought, unbidden, and dare not say it. _Gods have mercy on me, I do._

Sansa let her mind blank, not thinking, only _feeling._ The bliss of being wrapped in Petyr’s arms. 

Until she felt Petyr lifting her again, standing her. Sansa’s legs wobbled, poised to buckle, but Petyr quickly sat back on the throne and pulled her into his lap, scooping her legs up onto his, and laying her head against his chest. Spent, weak for a time, Petyr could have put Sansa into any position and she wouldn’t have protested. But she secretly liked this one, curled protectively in his lap, and she moaned softly as she nuzzled her head against his neck and shoulder. 

_Where I belong. Where I cannot stay._

For a while, they remained quiet, listening to the storm pound the windows, the castle walls. It had not abated in the least. 

Petyr’s voice broke the silence, his rasp thicker than ever, but somehow softer, too. 

“What just happened… was sort of a fantasy of mine.” 

Sansa turned her face up to look at him, curious, but cautious. 

“I may have lied a little, when we met again. When I told you I’d rather have you begging to be taken, not released. Your first night in King’s Landing, here in the throne room. Right before you tried to kill me,” he added. Casually. 

“When in truth, any kind of begging would do,” Petyr confessed. “Whenever I was bored, listening to some lesser lord drone on about some triviality… I used to picture you.” 

He stroked her head as he spoke. “You’d come to me, in supplication. Crawling across the Great Hall, red hair nearly sweeping the floor. Sometimes you’d be dressed as the Queen in the North. Sometimes you’d be wearing one of the sheer costumes the whores wear. Kneeling before me, you’d kiss my boots, beg me to have mercy on you. To let you show me how obedient you’d become.”

Sansa’s ears burned, _gods, he had no shame._ He spoke such wicked words with total ease, while Sansa felt flustered simply hearing them. 

She swallowed. “And how would I… do that?” 

“You’d dutifully take my cock in your mouth as I sat the throne.”

 _Of course I would._

“After you swallowed every drop, I’d tell you that you pleased me, and have the gold cloaks take you away to my room… for further enjoyment.” 

Sansa smacked his chest, refusing to cover her face, as her hands yearned. _He_ was the one confessing the shameful fantasy, not her. Even though hearing it was doing something funny to her, low in her belly. 

“You’re terrible, Petyr, truly.” she admonished. “Was the entire court watching?”

“No,” he shook his head. “Not usually. Although sometimes… yes. At the beginning. They’d conveniently disappear by the time you reached for my laces. I enjoy the idea of making you suffer a little humiliation by my hands, or by my command.” He paused, took a short breath. “Does that upset you?” 

It did… and it stirred something inside her regardless. 

Gods, what would Ned and Cat say if they could see their daughter now? What would Jon or Arya say? 

_Run, you idiot. Get out of there._

She was being an absolute fool…

“Hold on,” Sansa interrupted, mouth gaping. “I _knew_ it! I _told_ you! Do you remember when you said you picture yourself on the Iron Thone, me by your side? I argued it’s me by your _feet_ you wanted. And what did you just tell me? Your fantasy is exactly as I said. Crawling, literally, at your feet.” 

“Can’t it be both?” he asked, softly. “That first night in your room, I also said I’d make you a Queen to rule over all others… and be ruled by her King.” 

_Could it be both?_

No. It couldn’t be _anything,_ she reminded herself, with a twisting ache in her heart. Because Petyr lied. And the longer she stayed, listening to his false tongue, the more in danger she’d be. 

She swallowed, hard. The only way to be safe was leave King’s Landing forever, to never see Petyr again.

“You’ve taken well to your position in my absence, I’ve been told.” 

Sansa stiffened. Her guard raised whenever he used that vague tone of voice. Too easily interpreted in too many ways. Meant to draw one in, into a trap. 

Best to reply in kind. 

“Mm…” she murmured, noncommittally. 

Petyr laughed. 

Maybe she’d overdone it. 

“I wasn’t baiting you. I’m pleased.” 

Whether he meant to or not, his comment got under her skin. She pushed off his chest, head level with his, eyes searching his face for truths under the mask. 

_This was exactly why I can’t stay. Even if you managed to make amends for the past somehow, I can never trust you in the future._

“Don’t pretend like we haven’t been fighting a silent war these last few weeks.” Sansa demanded. “You know as well as I do that I’ve gathered allies to my side while you’ve been… well, who knows what you’ve been up to.” 

She blamed the wine and the storm for what she said next. 

“Varys and Tyrion seemed to think you avoided me because you… because your feelings were hurt. Meaning you had them.”

She couldn’t bring herself to say more. It was already more than she wanted. Sansa looked away. She suddenly felt very naked. 

A thought occurred to her and she turned her head back. “Or was this another of your tricks?” she asked. “Did you stay away to goad me into… what? Embracing the role as your queen?” 

Petyr licked his lips. She worried she’d find an amused grin, something to indicate that, once again, he’d maneuvered her that way all along. But his expression was unreadable.

“For a woman with so many years commanding men at war, you can be surprisingly black-and-white.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sansa furrowed her brow. “For a man with so many years mastering courtly tact, you can be surprisingly condescending.” 

“It means, just like you I’m capable of more than one emotion at a time, that I can do things with more than one purpose.” 

Sansa wrestled back the hope that rose at that open-ended implication. 

_Don’t let him trap you. It will be like the wedding all over again. Leave. Soon._

He titled his head. “Tell me you didn’t like it. Oh, I know you did it to spite me. To protect yourself. But tell me it didn’t please you, to rule.”

Sansa tucked her chin, pursed her lips. 

“Don’t demur, Sansa,” he chided. “I’ve _seen_ you. You enjoy it. You’ve never shied away from power.” 

“Except in our bed. Which is why we’re so perfect for one another.” 

There was that sardonic grin she’d expected. 

Sansa covered her face with her hand. _What was she doing?_ None of this mattered. She’d be gone as soon as she could find the right time. 

“So, will you return in the morning?” she asked. “To… whatever business you’ve been conducting around the capitol?” 

Petyr brought his hand to stroke Sansa’s cheek. Though she wished they didn’t, her eyes closed at the caress, and she leaned into his palm. 

“Regrettably, yes,” he whispered. “Would that I could stay… lock the door and bed you over and over. But I had no way of knowing you’d come to me tonight. I have commitments I’ve made tomorrow that I cannot break. I leave before sunrise and will not return until after dusk.”

Sansa’s heart quickened. 

_If he is gone all day, I can prepare._

She had to remind herself that was _good_ news. 

Sansa forced a small smile. 

“Speaking of doors, do you think you could ask the guards outside our bedroom to reposition? Maybe… down the hall. Where they can’t hear _everything.”_

Petyr chuckled, never having been troubled with modesty.

“Yes. And I can do better. I’m going to commission a special door. Iron throughout, and into the walls even. That way…” he said, bringing his thumb to her lips and tracing them, “no one can hear the cries I intend to wring from your pretty little mouth.”

Sansa thought about how Petyr threatened to belt her and understood he meant more than just cries of pleasure. 

#

Sansa watched the sky darken from the terrace, knowing night brought Petyr’s return. 

Her stomach knotted, but her eyes remained focused calmly ahead. 

Ros had come in the afternoon. Handed Sansa the perfected sleeping potion… and a cup of moon tea, to be safe. 

Ros raised an eyebrow at that request, but didn’t ask any questions. 

Arrangements had been made for Ser Galwyn, occupying the room below, to be kept enthralled at the brothel until late in the evening. 

Even the guards had moved far down the hall, Petyr having ordered their repositioning, she assumed. 

He was gone by the time she had awoken. Whether he intended to bed her again that night, she did not know, because she had fallen asleep almost as soon as she laid down.

 _In Petyr’s arms,_ she thought, before shaking the image away. 

The table had been set. Wheels of cheese, brown bread, and a salad of spinach and apples. Beets swimming in a bit too much butter for Sansa’s taste. A Lamprey pie that had been piping hot when it was brought, though who knew if it would cool by the time Petyr arrived? 

None of it mattered, none of it would be eaten. 

Sansa had poured two glasses of wine. 

Petyr’s held the sleeping draught. 

All he needed to do was drink. One sip. 

She heard the door open. 

Facing the sea, Sansa took one last, deep breath, and turned. 

#

“Such a feast,” Petyr said, though his eyes barely glanced the spread before them. “Pity I have little interest in supper, at the moment.” 

Sansa sipped her wine, hoping to engage him similarly. Petyr had only sat down reluctantly, attempting to drag her into bed as soon as he’d entered. 

“If you plan to bed me over and over, as you said last night, you’ll need your strength. You’re no young man anymore, you know.” 

Petyr’s eyes flashed, amused at what he only read as a challenge. 

_Pick up the wine!_ she thought. 

“I plan to fuck you senseless as long as I plan to rule, sweetling, and that, my dear, will be a very long time.” 

Sansa flushed, but his comment also made her grind her teeth side-to-side in thought. What kind of reign was it truly? Had he decreed new princes in the North, as Tyrion said? _Gods, he just needed to take a sip and she could watch all the answers unfold from afar._

“You’re hiding something,” Petyr said, eyes narrowed. 

Sansa’s stomach dropped. 

“I know about Jon,” she blurted, a desperate diversion, but she lifted her chin in defiance. 

Petyr cocked his head. “Do you?” he asked. 

Sansa studied him. Was he unsurprised or just faking it? 

“And how do you feel about that?” she asked. 

“Ravens fly every day. It was only a matter of time before some great lady or other broke the news.”

So he didn’t know Tyrion told her, but he didn’t care that she’d found out. And yet, he was studying her closely, though he tried to conceal it. 

_What kind of scheme was this?_

“Did you expect it to… what… make me forgive you? Bring me to you?” 

She _had_ come to him. But that wasn’t why. Was it? No. Besides, she hadn’t even known he was in the throne room. 

“I know it’s a lie,” Sansa said, before he could answer. 

“Really? And how would I fake this? Tell me.” 

“I- I don’t know. But Jon would never betray his vows, abandon the Night’s Watch.” 

“He would, and more. Anyone is capable of anything, under the right circumstances.” 

Right on que, Petyr leaned back, _and took a sip of his wine._

Sansa swallowed, her heart sputtered. She forced herself to breathe evenly. 

_How long? How long until it worked?_ She couldn’t say for sure the size of his gulp. 

Petyr replaced the glass on the table, lifted a hand to his beard, and rubbed it, once. 

“You don’t see the danger, the threat? Your brother would forever be contented in Winterfell. He has lost the desire to raise armies and fight. But there’s one thing that could bring him to war against the crown.”

He paused, and Sansa blinked, waiting. 

_“You._ He’d fight for his family. If Jon believed you were unhappy here, if you convinced him it was for the safety of your family, his family, to remove me from the throne and put you in my place, he’d do it. Don’t you see, my love?”

Sansa shook her head, she would not listen. 

“The power is in your hands.” 

_Lies._

“You’re saying that it’s _my_ choice? That if tell Jon I need him, he’ll wage war on King’s Landing, take away your crown? Why are you telling me this now?” 

Sansa sat back. “It’s because you feel safe, isn’t it? You always confess a little bit more, the more in your power you believe me to be. And after last night....” 

Sansa let her words trail off, her mouth twisted up into a bitter sneer. _Oh, he thought he had her, did he?_

“You think I’ll close my eyes to your lies now? You think I don’t know your secrets? All of them?” 

She shot to her feet and declared, “I know your dark truths, Petyr.” 

Sansa began pacing, putting distance between them, anger quickening her feet. She had never spoken of this before, but in the back of her mind, she’d always felt it…

“You secretly enjoy seeing the daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark on all fours. Taking your cock in her mouth, or whimpering beneath you in bed. It delights you. Tell me! That jealous little boy in you relishes wielding power over the lords and ladies who scorned him in his youth, especially those in the Riverlands and the North, by claiming the daughter of Winterfell in the most debased ways possible. Tell me part of you doesn’t enjoy the revenge I provide.” 

Petyr rolled his neck, sneered in return. 

“I know your dark truths, Sansa.” He rose to his feet, slowly.

“You secretly enjoy the King of the Realm pursuing you across the land, to win your affection and make you his queen. A goal your fellow Northmen thought too far, too high. A goal your father expressly forbid. Tell me that little girl in you doesn’t delight in riveting my attention every time you bat those long lashes. Tell me you don’t relish taking a queen’s power over the nobles who held you back, who questioned and even disputed your command when you became the Lady of Winterfell. Tell me part of you doesn’t enjoy the revenge _I_ provide.” 

Sansa fisted her hands. She was being argumentative and she didn’t know why. Not that she didn’t have reason, but what was the point now? 

She backed away further, putting the bed between them. Without being able to think of a retort, she accused, “You like degrading me!” 

“You like when I degrade you,” Petyr returned. 

“Stop that, stop it!” Sansa ordered, clenching her teeth. “You think you’re better than me because you’re the one with the power? Because you’re in control?”

“I think I’m better than you at admitting what I like.” 

“Listen to you!” she slammed her fist against her thigh. “After everything you’ve done, you still don’t act the like a… a… gentle, proper man,” Sansa sounded childish, she knew it. But she’d been raised so long on tales of gallant knights; so long her father had ingrained in her the importance of marrying an honorable, kind man, that she couldn’t easily turn away from years of a singular message. Despite the horrors she’d witnessed, she still held onto this belief in the way things should be between a man and a woman. “After all you’ve done, you’re not the least contrite. Where a man should _beseech,_ you, you… _besiege.”_

She noticed Petyr stifled a grin by the way his mouth twitched. 

“I’m tired of always fighting,” Sansa said. And suddenly, she knew why she was doing it.

 _Because it’s easier to leave this way._

“Then stop,” Petyr said. “Look around you. No one’s fighting anymore, no one but you.”

“That’s because you give me no choice. It’s either fight you or just… let you have your way, your horrible way.” 

“Stop lying to yourself when you want exactly that,” Petyr said. 

“Stop lying to me about everything else!” Sansa demanded. 

Petyr paused. She was right. Of course she was. And it heated her blood, pushed her to attack. 

“Even if there were a grain of truth to what you say, I hate you,” she spat. “You tricked me, you betrayed me, you forced me to be with you on our wedding night, you stole the North. I’m so angry, Petyr.” 

Across the room, Sansa locked eyes with his. She sharpened her words into weapons, like a smithy sharpens steel. “Sometimes I wish I could kill you for what you did. That I’d succeeded that night. Maybe I would kill you if I had the chance. Maybe I want you to die.” 

Petyr shifted his hands to his waist, to his dagger. 

“Then I will die.” 

He unstrapped the catspaw. 

“Take it,” he said, and tossed it across the bed, to Sansa. 

She caught the hilt by her fingertips, dropped it, and quickly stooped down to retrieve and unsheathe it. Fear bubbled up in her stomach. What game was he playing? Pure instinct raised her arm, brandishing the dagger before her. 

“Go ahead,” Petyr ordered, voice ominous. He began walking toward her, around the bed, slowly. 

“You want me to die, then I will die. But do it, Sansa. Or else I’m coming for you. _I’m going to keep coming for you, Sansa.”_

Sansa’s hand began to visibly shake, her heart raced. She didn’t like this game. 

“If you retreat to Winterfell, I will bring an army and tear it down to the last stone. And I will drag you back.”

Petyr spoke low, biting out words, alarming her. He had reached the end of the bed.

“If you push me away at night, I will pin you down. If you close your legs, I will tie them open. I will fuck you so hard, you will beg me to let you come. I will fuck you again and again, until you can’t stand, let alone walk. Until you can’t breathe, let alone shudder out one more orgasm.” 

“Stop it, stop it!” Sansa cried. She covered ears with her hands, then, remembering she needed to keep the dagger in front, she dropped her right hand and held only the left pressed against one ear. She quickly realized the effort was not only stupid, but entirely ineffective, and unwillingly removed that hand again as well. 

Petyr now stood on her side of the bed. Only a few feet separated them. Sansa backed away until she felt the cold stone wall behind her. There was no further retreat, not unless she could move rock. She didn’t want to listen to his words, she wished that she could shut him out, make him stop advancing, make him stop talking. Maybe she _would_ slit his throat, end his lies forever. 

Sansa’s breath came in short gulps as he neared. She didn’t want to cower, to show his intimidation had any effect, but her body instinctively pressed harder against the wall. Before her, could see the catspaw shake along with her hand. 

“And while you’re there Sansa, while you’re trapped under me and my cock is buried deep inside you, I am going to spill my seed into your belly over and over, until it swells with my child.” 

_By the gods, he was mad…_

Sansa’s tremble spread to her other arm, hanging by her side. Petyr’s eyes, grey in this light, flashed with something that frightened her, but every other part of him seemed as still as the stone those eyes resembled. 

Until Petyr advanced again, now mere inches from Sansa’s outstretched arm. His nearness did funny things to her stomach. Her hand shook so badly, it was a wonder she held onto the dagger. 

For a moment, they only stared at one another. She, chest rising with quick breaths. He, motionless. Like a shadowcat or a snake, stilled before striking. 

Quicker than she could blink, Petyr’s left hand knocked the catspaw from her grasp, twisting her wrist and pinning it to the wall, while his right hand reached out and grabbed her throat. 

Sansa gasped, a choking sound. She brought her hands up to his, prying at his fingers, but they were locked around her neck. 

For a long moment, Petyr’s dark eyes watched her struggle. 

Then he slammed against her and took her mouth in his. 

Sansa was kissing him before she could stop herself. His grip had loosened around her neck only so much as to allow him to get closer. 

She moaned, her nipples hardened. Maybe they had been that way the entire time, she wasn’t sure. Sansa could feel Petyr’s arousal against her, she met it without meaning to by rolling her hips toward him. 

_I am mad, too,_ she thought. 

Suddenly, Petyr broke their kiss, pulling his head back. 

He shook it, once, twice. 

His hand fell from her neck. Petyr blinked, slowly, then looked into Sansa’s eyes. 

It felt as if ice water filled her belly.

“What have you done?” he whispered. 

It was the first time she’d ever seen Petyr make such an expression. Confused, vulnerable, fearful, even. 

He raised his hand again, cupping her cheek. 

“Sansa-”

Petyr collapsed, unconscious at her feet, before he could say more. 

_No, no, no, no, no._

Sansa made a pitiful noise, like a cat strangled cat. She squeezed her eyes shut. 

_Oh gods._

Petyr hadn’t used his last breath to call the guards. 

He called her name.


	22. Bound by Honor

Sansa stifled a cry, sure to be wretched, biting her lip until she almost broke skin. 

She couldn’t scream. The guards would hear. She’d ruin everything she’d spent months planning. 

_Just leave, just go._

Tears leaked, slipping down her cheeks. Air refused to reach her lungs -- and her heart, the pain couldn’t be borne, it _couldn’t._ Sansa felt like her lungs suffered puncture wounds, like the dagger by her feet had pierced holes inside, and now they couldn’t fill. Her heart ached as if some sadistic goaler clamped it into a torture device, screwing tighter and tighter, determined the organ would slowly rupture. 

Sansa pried her eyes open and cast them downward. 

Petyr’s face looked hauntingly peaceful, as if in deep, untroubled rest. 

Her own became a contorted mess. 

Sansa threw herself down and sobbed, a sloppy, hiccup-y thing she pressed into his chest to muffle. 

How long had it been since she cried? Years? Her body seemed determined to make up for the stay. Her fingers wrapped around Petyr’s forearms, clenching.

Anguish washed over her and for a few minutes, she gave herself to it. 

_What I am doing?_ she thought, coming to her senses. Petyr would be furious when he woke. She wasted precious time. 

_Weeping must wait._

Sansa lifted her head and wiped the tears with the backs of her hands. 

She had to go. _Now._

But instead of leaving, she wrapped her arms around Petyr’s body and lifted. It was harder than she thought, understanding the expression _dead weight._ Her sobs mixed with grunts, coming out choked. For a moment she thought she pulled a muscle in her legs as she hoisted him up, slipping and re-gripping, to drag him onto the bed. 

She couldn’t leave him on the floor, she just couldn’t. 

Once sprawled across the bedding, it was easier to position his head onto the pillow. Petyr looked peaceful, just as he’d slept so many nights beside her.

A sob, too loud, tore from her lips and she covered her mouth with her hand. 

It only made her remember how Petyr liked to clamp his own hand over her mouth, under much different circumstances. Sansa recalled a specific time he yanked her into an alcove, hoisted up her skirts, and plunged his fingers into her without preamble. Not only were guards nearby, but courtiers as well, and when she climaxed, Petyr muffled her moans with his unyielding hand, and held locked against his chest until her breathing slowed. 

Sansa grabbed his shoulders and shook the unconscious man. 

_Why? Why? Why did you betray me?_

_I hate you,_ she thought, kissing his lips, hard. 

_I hate you, and I’m leaving you,_ ferociously she kissed his cheeks, his forehead. _I’m leaving now, I’m going so far away, you’ll never find me, never,_ she pressed her lips back against his. 

When Sansa lifted her head, she saw Petyr’s face, wet with her tears. Throughout it all, he did not stir a muscle, only returned the look of a man in deepest slumber. 

Sansa studied the fine lines on his face, the gray at his temples, the slight, crooked curve of his lips. They showed more now than they had the previous evening, Petyr having stopped somewhere before returning, having trimmed his beard and moustache. It was no longer overgrown, as it had been in the throne room the night prior. He’d freshly trimmed the hair on his head, as well, before returning to her. 

Sansa swallowed the huge lump in her throat. 

_You must be brave._

Wiping her tears again, she rose from the bed and found the rope, hidden at the bottom of her wardrobe. She grabbed her sturdiest boots and slipped them onto her feet. There was no time to dye her hair now, so she braided it back, tightly, and tied a dark, hooded cloak around her neck. She grabbed a purse full of gold dragons and silver moons and hid it within her dress. To be safe, she slid a few gold dragons into her boots, along with a small dagger. 

It reminded her of when she’d done the same, ages ago, before entering Petyr’s wheelhouse back at Winterfell. The one that would take her to King’s Landing. The vice around her heart squeezed tighter. 

Sansa glimpsed the ring on her finger. The gray diamond, with the wolf on one side, and the mockingbird on the other. The ring made from the same metal as Petyr’s own. The one she swore never to take off. 

She had kept that promise, until now. 

_It will only hurt, to remember._

Sansa walked over to their dressing table and for the first time, twisted the diamond from her finger. Her hand felt funny, missing it’s weight. She placed the ring, center on the tabletop. 

_You betrayed me. Now I’ll right that wrong, in kind._

Sansa walked out onto the terrace. 

She stopped, hunched, shoulders tensing. 

_Don’t turn around or you’ll never leave._

Her breath came shallow as she tried to hold it back, and then, she began blubbering like a little girl again. 

_Move,_ she commanded, and her feet obeyed. 

Sansa’s heart sped as she edged out to the balustrade. She took steadying breaths, blinking to clear the tears. 

Kneeling, she threaded the rope through the column nearest the wall, tying it with several sturdy knots. She had wanted to practice, but feared she’d never get the rope untied if she did, so she could only hope it was strong enough to hold her weight. 

Sansa paused again as she stood, feeling the warm evening breeze on her cheeks. Could she smell the lemon trees Petyr planted, or was that her imagination? 

This was her last chance to turn back. 

She was terrified to leave. She was terrified to stay. 

_What if he told the truth about Jon?_

No, whoever he placed in Winterfell was likely an impostor. Not her brother. And even if there was some way Jon became a Prince of the North, Petyr had done it only for some traitorous, self-serving purpose, that would hurt her in the end. He always did. 

_But what then, if Jon’s not at Castle Black, to help you?_

No, she reasoned. He’d still have friends there. _Someone_ to let her through the wall. It was the only place safe from Petyr. 

_Don’t look at him, don’t look at him._ She screwed her eyes shut. The vice around her heart tightened again. 

Before she could change her mind, she climbed onto the railing and over the other side. 

Her legs felt like jelly, like they’d refuse to work. 

_Climb,_ she ordered. _Don’t look down._

And with an audible gasp, she left the safety of solid rock beneath her feet, clenching the rope with all her strength. 

White-knuckled, Sansa slid, inch by inch down the line. Her dress continuously got in the way, she wished she’d taken the time to change into breeches. But should they chance to meet anyone, she’d been too afraid such a sight might catch someone’s attention – a maid scurrying about, half dressed as a man. 

Every second was the most frightening in Sansa’s life, until the next. Nothing but air filled the space beneath her, her life dependent upon one swaying rope, and her own muscle.

The climb felt like it would never end. Beads of sweat formed around her hairline and began to drip. Her hands burned, her arms started to shake. She wasn’t used to supporting her own weight this long. 

Finally, she heard a whisper. 

_“Your Grace.”_

High-pitched, Northern inflection. Ros’s voice. 

Sansa hadn’t noticed, she was almost level with the window now. 

Grasping so tightly it hurt, Sansa slid down the last few feet. 

She felt Ros’s slender arms reach out and grab her, pull her over the window ledge’s and through, safely inside. 

Sansa exhaled a sigh that broke into a whimper before she stopped herself, hugging her friend. 

All she wanted to do was rest. Sit. Cry. 

“We must hurry,” Ros said, and before Sansa could say anything further, she trailed after the redhead, slipping out the bedroom door, and creeping down the hallway. 

#

Three men waited on a dim, pebbly cove as they made their way out of the tunnels – longer and darker than Sansa had imagined. More dangerous, too. One misstep meant a twisted ankle, and all their plans for naught. 

As they fled, Sansa forced her feelings somewhere down inside her. Locked them away, refused to let them stop her. At least Petyr had given her practice with that in the past.

 _That’s_ all _you’ve been doing since you’ve met him though, isn’t it?_ said a voice in her head.

 _I just have to get to the ship,_ she thought, as they stumbled through the caverns. If she made it, she wouldn’t turn back, it wasn’t an option. She simply had to force her legs to carry her there. Make her feet do what her heart refused. To stop wanting him. To be near him. 

You are a Stark. It’s not about what you want, it’s what honor demands.

_Think of Arya, think of Robb and Jon, think of mother and father. What would they tell you to do?_

It might have been an hour, it might have been minutes for all Sansa knew, until they emerged from the mouth of the tunnel and onto that damp and slippery cove, where the three men now stood. 

Sansa had already pulled her hood tight around her head. 

“This is the lady that needs passage,” Ros said, to the one with cropped brown hair, brown eyes, and a long nose. He seemed near Petyr’s age, and Sansa assumed, the leader of the trio. He had several inches on the two other men, and carried himself as if he had even more. His companions were also brown-haired, though one was wiry and the other looked as if he enjoyed a good meal more than he should. 

“Man’s been bothering her, eh? I can see why.” It was the shorter, heftier one who replied. 

The man Ros originally addressed, the one Sansa took as their leader, gave him a reproachful look. 

“Yes,” Ros said. “She’s being troubled by one of the king’s favored advisors. He is very persistent, my lady is in danger. She has no recourse but to leave the capitol.”

The leader nodded. “We’ll keep her safe.” 

“Rolder Oakenfield, at your service,” he greeted Sansa, extending his hand to help her into the skiff, halfway upon the shore. “Come, my lady.” 

Sansa turned back to Ros. Tears pricked at her eyes again, and her lip quivered in a most un-queenly manner. 

_I must not cry now, I must not._

“Thank you,” she whispered, though the words seemed small compared to all Ros had done for her. “I will send word to the brothel, to let you know when I am safe. As we discussed.” 

Sansa couldn’t risk anything more than a vague message they’d already agreed upon. 

“And my sister has been… informed?” she whispered. 

Ros nodded, deeply. Sansa reached out and hugged her, reluctant to let go. She worried about Ros’s safety, as well. Sansa was sure Petyr would question her, though the redhead insisted she’d been deceiving him this long and could continue to do so. 

“Safe travels, my lady,” she said, a bit teary herself. “I will miss you.” 

Ros turned to Rolder. “You’ll arrange for a guard to escort her from White Harbor?” 

“And bring her wherever north she’d like to go,” he agreed, bowing his head. 

“Once I receive word of my lady’s safety, you’ll receive the other half we agreed upon. Ten thousand, when her letter arrives.” 

Sansa turned and gave her hand to Rolder, who escorted her into the boat. His skinny companion joined him, but the third man stayed back. 

“Have business here,” he said, and Sansa didn’t mind, not liking the look of his leer. The portly man helped push the boat back into the water, along with the thin one, who jumped aboard as they reached the waves. 

Sansa sat while the men took the oars. She wanted to help, if only to have something to do other than look out at the bay. 

King’s Landing dwindled behind them. 

Somewhere back there, her love lay sleeping in their shared bed. 

His rage would be a terrible thing when he woke. Or would agony wrack his body, heart aching, as hers? 

_Don’t cry, don’t you dare cry._

#

Watching Sansa’s skiff depart, Ros didn’t see the salacious look in eye of the man who remained beside her. 

Nor did she see how his hand stroked the scabbard at his side, almost as if stroking his cock. 

#

Sansa trained her eyes forward as the men rowed deeper into Blackwater Bay, though she could make out little on the moonless night. When they reached the ship, someone threw a rope ladder over the hull, and she climbed up and onto the deck. 

There was another moon Sansa didn’t see. 

One she had no chance to glimpse, as she was quickly shown into her private cabin. 

A crescent moon, beside a white falcon. Emblazoned on a blue field. 

Several such banners were purposely well-hidden, buried beneath tarps, canvas – and swords too -- deep in the bowels of the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I thought this was my first cliffhanger! I'd been categorizing the previous endings as "dramatic" but more strictly defining cliffhangers as ambiguous last sentences concerning some action or threat. Your feedback made me realize this is not correct at all. All this and more I learn from your comments. 
> 
> Thank you for your many lessons. I shall never forget them. 
> 
> If it's unclear what has happened, please let me know and I will elaborate as best I can! 
> 
> I need to slow a bit on the updates as it's holiday time.


	23. Dually Deceived

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forewarning - No smut here. Though I wish every chapter could be smut, it wouldn't work without the build-up...

Sansa looked out the narrow slat that passed for a window, holding onto the ledge with one hand, as her body rocked along with the waves. 

The thumb on her other hand absently rubbed the empty space where her ring used to be. 

Standing was an effort. Every part of her body felt heavy. Her head, too weighty to lift. Her legs, to leaden to carry the rest of her. 

_“Best not to leave your room during the journey,”_ Rolder had instructed, when he showed her to the cramped storeroom that had been turned into a cabin, _“some of the men here are unacquainted with the manners a lady such as yourself would come to expect. Stay inside, it’s…safer.”_

Sansa stayed. Taking in the miniscule bed, she’d been sure she’d never sleep. But it turned out her eyelids were heavy too. She slumbered, time blurring in endless dreams of Petyr, growing the ache more each time she woke. 

Once, she had jolted from such a terror, calling out his name. 

Disappointment washed over her at her childishness, reminiscent of six years ago, when she endured a similar agony as Petyr walked out of Winterfell. 

_Have you learned nothing since?_ she wondered. 

_I have,_ she answered. _I learned to leave._

Back then, _he_ disappeared. 

Now, _I_ have vanished. 

#

With nothing to occupy her time but to gaze at the horizon, Sansa grew restless. The journey to White Harbor would take at least a fortnight. She would go mad in such confined quarters. 

_The sea air will help,_ she thought. _I’ll be safe in the daytime. How else should I find food, should I ever find my stomach? Or,_ she thought with some embarrassment, _empty my chamber pot, when the time comes?_

Lifting her hood over her head, she strode the five feet over to the wooden door and rested her fingertips upon the handle, debating. 

_Move,_ Sansa commanded herself. _You have to leave this cabin, it’s not wise to be idle. You have to be strong. You’re a Stark._

_And a Baelish,_ came the immediate thought. 

Sansa covered her face with her hands, inhaling and exhaling deeply in an attempt to gain some composure. 

_You can’t love someone who betrays you,_ she reminded herself, for what felt like the thousandth time. 

She opened the creaky door and climbed an uneven flight of stairs to the deck…

…slamming right into a body as she turned the corner. 

“Mpfh,” Sansa mumbled, then quickly grinned at the unfamiliar shipman. She was surprised at how easily the false smile fixed upon her face. 

She’d changed a great deal since she’d arrived in King’s Landing. 

“Seven blessings,” Sansa said, playing up a non-Northern heritage. 

“’Sucse me, m’lady,” the man said, removing from his mouth the salted pork he chewed, to give Sansa a wiry smile. Noticing the food in his hands, he held the half-eaten stick out to her, in offering. 

“Ah, no thank you,” Sansa politely declined. The man replaced the dried meat in his mouth, letting half the stick hang out. He seemed torn between relief at not having to share, and disappointment at not having his gift accepted. 

“You hungry? Got apples in the galley.” He didn’t remove the pork while he spoke, and continued flashing his goofy grin, so that drool threatened to spill onto his chin. 

“No, thank you,” Sansa said. Catching the man’s shoulders droop, added, “I mean, yes, apples would be lovely, a bit later. I’m not quite hungry yet.” 

The man’s face brightened. Sansa didn’t find anything unsafe in his countenance, but all the same, she rested her hand on his shoulder and said, “you are such a kind man to consider my well-being.” 

She might have thought she’d kissed him for the way his chest puffed out in pride at her words. 

“You tell me and I’ll get you apples anytime you hungry. We got three kinds in there, we do. Two red and one green. The red ones come in different reds. A dark, shiny one and a red with yellow at the top,” he said, eyes dancing to describe the variety of shades. “The green ones just come in green,” he added, disappointed. 

“Thank you. I would love to try them all on our journey. How many days until we reach White Harbor?” Sansa asked. 

“White Harbor?” the man said, confused. “The lady don’t get on much with the Prince of the North.” 

Sansa stared, words slow to reach her brain. 

_The Prince of the North._

“The Prince of the North…” she repeated, blinking. 

_Could it be true?_

“What does he look like?” Sansa asked, furrowing her brow, heartbeat picking up speed. “I heard… he’s a bastard who used to be a commander of the Night’s Watch. But that can’t be true, they take their vows for life.” 

“Nah, he left his brothers after they attacked him or something. Was mad he let them wildlings in. Got one with child, he did. Some Red Woman healed him. Next thing we knows, the king legits him, gives him all the North.” 

_Legits… legitimizes? Got one with child? A wildling?_

Sansa wished she had eaten, she felt weak, slow, her brain struggling to process words.

The commander of the Night’s Watch – Jon – was expecting a child? And now sat her father’s chair in Winterfell? 

Could it be… as Tyrion said? 

_Oh._

_If_ Jon had gotten a wilding girl pregnant, he wouldn’t want to raise a bastard. Of that, Sansa was certain. 

But leaving his command? No. Honor was everything to her brother, he took after their father in that regard. 

Unless… _maybe_ if his brothers had attacked and betrayed him first, Jon would abandon his vows. If Sansa knew anything about Jon, he’d want his child to have a mother _and_ a father, a proper place in the world. 

…And Petyr legitimizing Jon, giving him the Stark name, provided that. 

_Oh._

Sansa sucked in her breath, covering her mouth with her hand. 

It made sense. It was _true._ Petyr played a gain for everyone. Jon got the home and family he always wanted. Petyr secured a grateful, loyal ally in Winterfell. Sansa got a more powerful North than she’d even bargained for, under a strong commander she could trust. 

Her eyelids fluttered as they closed. 

_Fuck._

Her heart spasmed. 

Petyr wasn’t lying. 

This was no imposter. Why had she ever convinced herself of that? One raven, one visit, and the truth would be impossible to hide. 

Oh gods. _Oh gods._

She made the wrong decision. 

She had to go back!

A thought suddenly popped into Sansa’s mind. 

“Wait,” she whispered. “Where are we going? You said _the lady_ doesn’t get on with the Prince of the North. What lady?” 

“Eh! You there!” came a shout from behind her. “What are you talking about? Get away from that girl!” 

Sansa whipped her head around to see the tall silhouette of Rolder storming toward them. 

Reason told Sansa that he was only protecting her, as he’d advised the night before, but his tone made her skin tingle in warning. 

“It’s alright, he didn’t mean me any harm-” Sansa began. 

“Get back in your cabin,” Rolder interrupted. 

Sansa couldn’t say why, but she had the foreboding feeling that if she returned to her cabin, she’d never leave. 

“When did you wake?” he asked, almost to himself. “Get back in your cabin, girl.” 

Sansa took a step away from the man. 

“I only came onto the deck for some fresh air,” she said, cautiously. 

“Now you’ve got it. Get below.” 

She tilted her head, debating. 

_Who did he think he was speaking to?_

“I shall do no such thing.” Her shoulders squared, she fixed her ice stare upon Rolder. “In fact, I want you to turn this ship around. We’re returning to King’s Landing. Or, if you shall not, then let me out at the nearest port.” 

In reply, Rolder seized her arm and Sansa yelped. He yanked her towards the stairs. 

“Let go of me! Let go!” Sansa shouted, stumbling after Rolder as he dragged her down the steps. She had been planning to reveal herself, but now she could only do her best not to fall. Rolder passed her own cabin and continued down the hall. 

“Unhand me!” Sansa demanded, but Rolder opened the door at the end of the passage and shoved her inside a much larger cabin. 

Sansa spun out of his reach as he slammed the door. 

“I demand that you turn this ship around,” she said, finally tossing back her hood to reveal a very disheveled red braid. “Do you know who I am?”

Rolder’s eyes _danced_ at the question. 

“You do…” Sansa breathed. The icy hand of danger, perhaps mortal, ran up her skin, setting it to chills. 

“Where are you taking me? Who are you?” 

Rolder withdrew the sword from his side, pointed it toward Sansa. 

“Sit down, and put your hands behind that column,” he said, titling his chin in the direction of a wooden pillar in the room’s center. 

Sansa didn’t budge. 

“There are more than two dozen men aboard this ship and none of them will help you if you scream. What else can you do? Jump overboard and swim to shore?” 

_Panic will do you no good,_ Sansa cautioned, reigning in the rise of fear. Seeing no other option, she sat, with her back to the pillar. 

“Please, don’t tie me,” she whispered, fighting a lump in her throat in an effort to remain in control. Rolder ignored her as he secured her hands. 

_The most important thing is to keep your wits._

“Tell me who you are,” Sansa commanded.

“You’ll be staying in here for the rest of the journey,” Rolder replied. 

She watched as he rose to his feet and busied himself with something in the corner. She looked around. _In here,_ meant, what appeared to be his own room. Her stomach sank at the thought. Sansa pulled against the ropes, but he tied them firmly. 

Rolder returned, carrying a cup. 

“Drink this,” he ordered. 

Sansa’s eyes widened, she shook her head. 

“It’s not poison,” Rolder said, as if reading her mind. Holding it to her firmly pressed lips, Sansa caught the familiar odor. 

_Moon tea._

Why? Who would want her to drink-

Of course.

_Aunt Lysa._

Lysa was “the lady” they were bringing her to. 

Oh gods. 

_Her aunt was a sick, sick woman._

Sansa had already sipped a cup of the potion the day before. But she had no intention of confessing that. 

She let tears brim her eyes. 

“Please. What is that?” she asked. “I don’t want to die.” 

“Don’t you be minding, just drink.” 

“But it smells like… something my maid had once. With special herbs, bathed in moonlight to… to…” she blinked a tear down her cheek. 

Rolder’s face confirmed it. 

“Just drink the tea,” he said, pressing it to her mouth once more. 

Sansa clamped her lips shut and turned her head. When he dropped his hand, she spoke again. 

“Don’t make me,” she pleaded, face a picture of fright. “I’ll throw it up if you do.” 

“So, you might be with child after all,” Rolder said. 

“I… I don’t know,” Sansa lowered her lashes as she gazed downward. “It’s too soon to tell.” 

“All the more reason you need to drink this now. Should anything go wrong, it’s better this way. I won’t be responsible for… just drink it.” 

Sansa let her head fall in defeat. When she looked back up, it was in acceptance. 

“If I drink it and promise to keep it down, will you please tell me where we’re going? You’re doing this at Lady Lysa Arryn’s behest, aren’t you?”

Rolder rocked back on his heels, raising his eyebrows in surprise. 

“You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? Alright. I’ll make you a deal. Drink the tea without spitting it out or tossing it up later. Don’t scream or make this any more difficult than it has to be. And I will let you know what you want to know. _It’s the right thing to do,”_ the man mumbled the last part under his breath, to himself. 

He pressed the cup to her lips and this time Sansa drank it all, adding a small sob when she finished. 

“You have your husband to thank for this,” Rolder said, snapping her attention. 

Sansa’s blood froze, her stomach threatened to send the tea back up her throat, promise or not. 

Was Petyr… plotting with Lysa? 

Her lip involuntarily quivered. Rolder caught it, and one side of his mouth curled up. It was not at all the way Petyr’s did. It was slow, high, a lopsided grin tinged with bloodlust. 

“I’ve been working on the king’s ship for _years,_ waiting. Not his royal pleasure barges, oh no. The ones he uses when he doesn’t want anyone to know what he’s shipping or where he’s going. He’s got a small fleet of those.” 

That didn’t surprise Sansa. 

“You think your husband didn’t know you were planning to leave?” he said. 

That did. 

She sucked in a breath. 

“He knew your redheaded friend was asking around for passage. I didn’t. Not until he spoke with our captain one night, to arrange a little kidnapping for you aboard our ship. The heroic king would then come to your rescue with Baelish soldiers, saving his beautiful Queen. He was convinced you’d swoon and stop trying to escape the bonds of marriage after that.” 

Sansa stared, riveted. 

“So you see, I got the idea from your dear husband. Figured I’d make it real. I don’t have much any longer, I’ve lost everything I had waiting for this moment. But I still have the Lady’s ear.” 

Sansa furrowed her brow, trying to sort it out. “My Aunt Lysa gave you this ship, you’re taking me to the Eyrie…” 

“Either Petyr couldn’t accept that you really wanted to leave, or he underestimated how soon. You might have just as easily wound up on _his_ ship with a fake kidnapping. But you, my lovely queen, are here, and I assure you -” his face took on wide-eyed glory, “nothing has ever been more real.”

Sansa suppressed a shiver. 

_Be brave._

“You’re bringing me to my Aunt Lysa. Why? Whatever she’s paying you, the king can pay more,” Sansa bargained. 

“You think I care about riches?” 

“What then? Power?”

Rolder scoffed. 

Sansa bit her lip. “Are you in love with Lysa? Or do you do her bidding because you’re a coward? That’s it, isn’t it? Lysa has made you her lap boy, or, or, she’s got something on you. You’ll do anything she says-”

“Fuck Lysa,” Rolder cut her off. 

Sansa paused, licked her lips. The more they spoke, the more Rolder’s mask of civility slipped. 

“Why are you doing this?” She asked. She couldn’t counter the offer if she didn’t know what it was. 

When he didn’t respond, she probed, “What about the Lord of the Vale? Robin Arryn is a man, grown.”

“A man, yes, by all external appearances. Grown, no. Spent too much time at his mother’s teat. Lysa is the true power of the Vale.” 

Sansa’s desperation grew. She felt like an animal having fallen down a well, now scrambling up the stone walls trying to find purchase, to reach the light. 

“You’re on the wrong side,” she argued. “He’ll come with the Baelish army, storm the Bloody Gates. No one will take arms against the king. And if he can’t pass, he’ll burn them down, burn the whole Arryn army with wildfire. You cannot win, you will die, you will all die.” 

Rolder leaned in close to Sansa’s face. His eyes twinkled. 

“Petyr won’t come with an army. He’ll come with enough guards as to protect any lord, aye. But he’ll face Lysa without the might of the crown.”

Sansa bit her lips again. He was right. Petyr would bring an army to storm Winterfell, it was true. But the Vale, Lysa… would require other measures. He wouldn’t meet her with brute force, especially not if she held Sansa prisoner, her life in the balance. He’d try to deal with her as he always had. But how would Rolder know that? 

“If it’s not Lysa’s command you obey… it’s someone else. Someone is instructing you because, because…” horror filled Sansa as she said the words…

“It’s not riches or power… you want to replace the king.” 

But Rolder only turned his head and spat. “You think I care whose arse sits that metal chair?” 

Rolder bit the cork of the rum with his teeth and pulled so hard Sansa thought he was going to spit it across the room, but he placed it within his hand and took a swig. He offered Sansa a sip, but she shook her head. Not only was her stomach in ruins, her lips twitched in disgust at the thought of drinking from the same bottle as this man. If she didn’t learn more soon, though, she’d drink with him if she had to. Anything to keep him talking. 

Sansa looked around the room as if there might be a clue, before giving up and trying another path. 

“If what you say is true, and Petyr did arrange a kidnapping… if he did come to rescue me, men would die. His men. Your men. Men he paid to help him.” 

Rolder breathed out one, stunted laugh. “Ordering the deaths of those closest to him is his favorite betrayal.” 

Sansa lifted her head, eyes searching Rolder’s face. 

He spoke with familiarity, contempt. 

But he lived. Had Petyr ordered his death, and he’d escaped? 

A terrible dread filled her stomach. 

Rolder didn’t care who sat the Iron Throne… 

…as long as it wasn’t Petyr. 

Sansa wasn’t the target. She was the bait. 

She shuddered a breath. 

“You’re using me to lure Petyr to the Vale. Not for Lysa. For yourself.” Sansa blinked, seeing more of the picture in her mind’s eye. “I’m the bait to bring him to you. You’re going to kill him.” 

Her thoughts came faster now. “You needed Lysa to provide the ship, you needed me to provide the trap.” _But why the ruse of heading to the Vale on Lysa’s orders? Why not just meet Petyr in open water?_

“You need Petyr alone,” she said, understanding, her voice a whisper. “And they don’t know, do they? The rest of the men on your ship.” 

Sansa nodded, sure of it. “Of course they don’t, or they’d tell Lysa. What makes you think I won’t, when we get to the Eyrie?”

“What makes you think you’ll have the chance?” 

Sansa shuddered again. Images of Rolder cutting out her tongue flashed through her mind. 

“Why?” she asked, swallowing back the desperation in her tone. “Revenge?” 

Rolder sat on the floor, turning and rubbing the cork over his fingers. He watched it flip about, while Sansa held her breath. 

Finally he nodded, and spoke. 

“I will tell you the truth, it’s the right thing to do. It’s more than we were ever given.” 

Rolder took another swig of rum, then jammed the cork back into the bottle and set it aside. 

“Your king is many things, but a master military commander isn’t one of them,” he began. “Men seasoned in battle, some since before your husband even came to Gulltown, put their experience to practice against the Knights of the Vale. This was back when the fighting got real messy. The Tullys sided with the North, were conquered by the Lannisters, and then they were conscripted to fight alongside them, under the lion’s threat of slaughtering all their children if they did not comply. Most wound up on the front as arrow fodder. Highgarden had switched sides so many times and so divisively, brother fought against brother, and no one knew at any given time for whom they declared.

Your dear husband flourished amongst this, I’m sure you can imagine. But one thing he couldn’t do was outthink was the sheer size of the Lannister and Highgarden army barreling down on the Eyrie. As much as the natural defenses kept others out, it trapped them in. We needed roads cleared for food and supplies, with winter soon upon us.

We were outnumbered, outmatched, surrender our only option. Until Petyr took a page from your brother’s book.” 

Sansa’s eyes widened. “Jon?”

“Robb,” Rolder replied. His tone raised the hair on Sansa’s neck and a pain shot through her heart as the mention of Robb’s name. 

“Petyr needed a diversion. A decoy, a token force, to distract the Lannister forces while he marched the bulk of the army down the River Road to boot out the lions and claim Riverrun for himself.” 

“Your brother Robb had once divided his forces, sent a small number of men to their deaths. A trick to confuse the Lannisters, while his real army worked it’s true purpose.”

Rolder laughed, but there was no mirth in it. 

“Only now, see, the Lannisters were wary of such a trap. They wouldn’t fall for it twice.” 

He leaned in closer to Sansa. She could see the flecks of green in his hazel eyes. 

“To make it convincing, Petyr had to send his favored commanders. Old friends, or as close to friends as that man ever keeps. Those lucky few within his inner circle.” 

Sansa’s stomach knotted. 

“He made them meet the Lannister army on the battlefield the day prior, let them see our faces, know we were really there. All the while, Petyr lied to his friends, told them his forces were going in from behind, hidden in the trees. That just after we attacked, he’d swoop in with a surprise double-envelopment.” 

Rolder gnashed his teeth. 

“Only no attack from the rear ever came. It was nothing but suicide, right from the time it was conceived in his conniving, deceitful little mind.” 

“Petyr took the army and marched right down River Road, right past the fighting. Claimed Riverrun for himself. By the time the Lannisters returned, they were outmatched between the Knights of the Vale and the remaining Tullys, seated comfortably within the fortress walls.”

Sansa caught the whites of his knuckles when Rolder fisted his hands. 

“While we were slaughtered like sacrificial pigs on the battlefield. _My son was slaughtered like a pig right in front of my eyes.”_

Sansa stared, gaping. Before the words _he wouldn’t do that,_ could get out of her mouth, she knew. 

Yes. He would. 

Seven hells, her brother had done much the same. 

“I’m… sorry,” she whispered, knowing her words were a pittance against what the man must have been feeling. Unbearable loss barged through her door, an unwelcome guest, more times than she could count. 

For long moments they were both silent. Rolder, she imagined, lost in memories of his son, while Sansa pieced together the timeline in her mind. 

Eventually, she whispered, “Petyr disappeared after that. Is that why? Did you hunt him, seek out revenge?”

“Me? I had nothing to do with it. He promised the Tullys he’d return Riverrun to them after the Lannister threat had been dealt with. Not that he had any intention of keeping that promise, either.”

“But he did!” Sansa protested, remembering. By that time, her own Northmen were fighting Lannisters as well, and with the luck of winter storms, they’d beaten them back and won several victories. The little force remaining must have, she now surmised, unsuccessfully tried to reclaim Riverrun. Sansa had also turned her eye to the castle, to garrison men at her late mother’s home, and refute the claim Lysa tried to press. She’d been prepared to fight for it, but there was no need.

“Aye, your dear husband left Riverrun, only because he ran off to the Dragon Queen. Had no need to play with minor lords and pretend queens any longer.” 

Sansa let her mind drift back to the past. No one knew where Littlefinger had gone, until word spread that he whispered in Daenerys’s ear, across the Narrow Sea. _And fell into her good graces with suspicious ease,_ Sansa thought. For all the years she wondered how he killed the Dragon Queen, it was equally mysterious how he became her heir in the first place. 

It occurred to Sansa that had Petyr not fled, had he not peaceably relinquished Riverrun, it would have been the first time the bulk of her forces met his, in battle. 

The _only_ time. 

Sansa couldn’t say for sure the outcome, other than mass casualties would have resulted.

In all the wars, she and Petyr never met, face-to-face, in a large-scale battle. It was always subterfuge, skirmishes, secret attacks with specific gains in mind. 

Had the knowledge that Sansa would be coming, with all of the North behind her, helped spur his decision to join Daenerys at that moment? Was he concerned about what her army would do to his… or was he protecting her from what his could do to her?

Sansa pulled her hands against the ropes, longing to clutch at her heart in some attempt to stave the pain. 

How had it come to this? 

All the decisions of their past flooded her, like rising water closing in on her head, threatening to drown. 

_If only…_ if only she hadn’t fled King’s Landing. _If only_ Petyr hadn’t betrayed her. _If only_ they were honest with each other… on and on it went in Sansa’s mind, back to the beginning. But it was too late now. Their mutual mistrust signed their mutual death sentences. 

_No._

She could stop it. 

“My life, for his!” Sansa cried, words tumbling out of her mouth as soon as she thought them. 

“If you want Petyr to suffer as you have, let him lose someone he loves,” she pleaded. “Kill me. Let him live in misery thereafter.” 

Rolder shook his head. “Can’t allow Littlefinger to live and send more sons to their deaths. Certainly not King Petyr on the Iron Throne.”

Sansa’s eyes pricked with real tears this time. 

“But don’t worry. You’ll get your wish. I was never convinced, as Petyr had persuaded Lysa, that your dear husband is in love with her. But I did believe the other tale he’s been spinning your aunt, that he was only manipulating you to fall for him, using you only until you were as deluded of his love, then sending you back to Winterfell to do his bidding.” 

Rolder clasped Sansa’s chin between his fingers, scrutinizing her. 

“Until that night on the boat, when I overheard him hatching his plan with the captian. So badly my fingers twitched to kill him right then, if I could only get a clear shot. Ever since he betrayed us, all I’ve wanted was to kill him. Littlefinger has only ever loved Littlefinger, it was the best revenge. _I’ve always found revenge to be the purest of motivations,_ he was fond of saying.

But I realized, now there’s something he loves more. The purest, most poetic revenge is within my grasp.” 

At the word _grasp,_ he tightened his grip on Sansa’s chin. 

“So you see, you’ll get your wish. You’ll die, just like my son did.” 

Rolder slid his hand across her face and, not unkindly, brushed one of the tears tracing a line down her cheek with his thumb. 

“You’ll die first. Right before he does. Right in front of Littlefinger's eyes.”


	24. Is it all Lies?

_Clack. Clack. Clack._

Sansa’s ears picked up the slow, controlled footfalls of Petyr’s riding boots. He’d come straight from horseback, right up to the Eyrie. 

She’d recognize that sound anywhere. Even blindfolded. 

How many times had she listened, waiting over the bed in some compromising position he’d instructed, with a curious mixture of dread and anticipation as the echo of his steps drew near her door?

Only now, each clack of boot-on-stone sounded like their mutual doom. 

_Leave, Petyr! Go. Run!_

She screamed the words in her head, if not her mouth. 

By the draft in the room and the echo of the steps, Sansa could tell they placed her in some cavernous hall. Waiting for her death was bad enough, not being able to see it coming was worse. She would much rather face it, look her killer in the eye. 

_Warn Petyr._

But her hands were bound, her feet as well. And that grimy gag tied so tightly she could only drool on her chin. Rolder required it nearly always be strapped around her mouth, even during her time in the sky cell, when she hadn’t, at least, been blindfolded. Sansa had not spoken to anyone, not even her aunt. She had no idea how long she’d remain a prisoner, no chance of using her wits to escape. 

Any hope she might feel in Petyr’s shrewd manipulations, by his artful banter, was undone by the knowledge that they were both in fatal peril, and not just from her aunt. The secret pounded in her head until it throbbed, shrieking to be released, and she could do _nothing,_ not even see. 

_Clack. Clack. Clack._

Closer now. Each of Petyr’s steps resounded with morbid finality, like another stone piling upon them, sealing their shared tomb. 

_Leave, please. This is a trap, and not Lysa’s._

What could Petyr see? What was he thinking? 

Sansa had been forced to stand, though she knew not where, and by the time they released her she could barely obey. She was so weak from the brutal winds of the sky cell, the hunger, the _thirst._ Her desire for water was the worst of all. She dreamed of it, fantasized about cool splashes running down her throat, licked her chapped and bleeding lips out of desperation. 

They’d kept her alive on the occasional thimbleful, no more, bringing her to near-delirium. Days passed in the sky cell, marked by the torments of Mord, who grew bolder with each. 

On Sansa’s first night, tied upon the floor, the goaler only eyed her as he stood by the door, yanking his fat cock until semen splattered the stones. By the time Sansa had been brought out of the cell that morning, Mord’s visits were a nightly occurrence. Only now he splattered her hair; and, laughing, her face, as Sansa squeezed her eyes closed, and tried to turn her head away. She refused to give him the satisfaction of crying in his presence. 

The few times Sansa made water it had nowhere to go but on her own soiled dress, leaving her feeling repulsive. Even now she could smell the stench that now clung to every inch of her body. 

It was a ridiculous thought to have in her last moments, and yet, she _cared._ She didn’t want Petyr to see her like this. She didn’t want his last image of her to be weak, filthy, a wretched thing. 

Sansa swayed on her feet, expecting a sword through her back at any moment if she faltered, and eventually, even if she did not. 

“Lysa,” Petyr’s voice rang out, low and sure, and straight to Sansa’s heart. “Let her go.” 

There was a pause and then, unable to restrain herself, Sansa heard her aunt’s whine.

“You love her, you want her! Why did you marry her, why? An empty-headed girl.” 

“I’ll send her away,” Petyr swore. “I told you. Nothing has changed.” 

“Lies!” her aunt cried. 

“You’ll realize I didn’t come here with an army.” 

_Clack, clack, clack._

Sansa heard, felt, _sensed,_ Petyr’s nearness. It sent her heart racing. 

_Petyr, no, run,_ Sansa begged. He was so close, and yet she couldn’t tell him, couldn’t see him, couldn’t touch him. She hated having her every ability to act, stripped. The _uselessness_ reminded her of how she felt as a young girl. What good was having a keen mind, when you weren’t allowed to apply it? 

Petyr had never treated her that way, right from the first night she met him. He was the only person – male or female – to encourage her, teach her, _play_ with her. He engaged her mind, sought to sharpen it. He offered the opportunity to put her mind to use for the good of the entire kingdom. 

_Not so clever then. You ran away from that, you stupid, stupid girl._

“My sweet love. The girl won’t change our plans. She is nothing.” Sansa hear Petyr’s dismissive voice nearly next to her ear, and then, she received the unexpected kick of his boot to the back of her knees. Sansa fell with a muffled shout, slamming her shoulder into what felt like a stone wall.

Was it for show? Or was Petyr so angry with her, he meant it? 

_“Back in the center of the door.”_

Sansa tilted her head toward the new voice. Male, but high-pitched, somewhere off to her right. 

As soon as the words were out of the stranger’s mouth, Petyr’s hands were in Sansa’s hair, yanking her to her feet and making her yelp. She had no way to brace herself against the pain. Tears pricked her eyes at both the sting and the confusion that it was Petyr who caused it. 

Wobbling, her scalp hurt so badly the agony delayed Sansa’s awareness that she if she opened her eyes, she could _see._

When Petyr hauled her back to her feet, he’d taken her blindfold with him. 

Sansa blinked, adjusting to the light. 

The first thing she saw was Petyr’s narrow back, the profile of his lightly bearded face. He looked down at the blindfold, and, with an air of indifference, tossed it on the floor.

Even with his back to her, Sansa’s heart twisted at the sight of him. 

_Oh gods, Petyr, please take my gag too,_ she prayed. 

But neither Petyr nor the gods heard her. 

Littlefinger wore no crown. He donned a tightly-fitted, floor-length surcoat, as he often did, crossed with a gold belt. But this particular robe was not the richly embroidered, fine wool he wore as King Petyr. He came to Lysa as Lord Baelish. 

Sansa’s eyes bored into back of his head for a few seconds, willing him to turn to look at her. When he did not, she hastily tore her gaze to take in the rest of the room. 

Her aunt sat a weirwood throne on a raised platform above her, bisecting a winding staircase. The ceiling loomed far above them, the room was curved, white marble, and looked as cold as it felt. 

Sansa glimpsed the man to her right. Slight, handsome, eyes just as cold as the room. His hands tensed on a wheel, ready to turn. A loaded crossbow rested against his leg.

Puzzled, Sansa glanced back at Lysa, then down at her feet. 

She gulped, realizing where she stood. 

Center on the infamous moon door in the High Hall of the Eyrie. 

If the man holding that wheel turned it, the door would open, and she’d fall six hundred feet to the rocks below. Unable to move, unable to scream. 

Sansa’s stomach dropped. It was a bad way to go. And worse, Rolder would kill Petyr after she fell. 

“I lied for you, I killed for you. Why did you marry her, why?” Lysa cried. 

“Nothing has changed,” Petyr’s voice soothed. “We’ll send her to Winterfell, where she belongs. I swear on my life. I swear to all the gods. Let her go, Lysa.” 

Lysa gnashed her teeth and spat, “then why did you give the North to Ned’s bastard?” 

“To embolden them. He’s a young man, eager to make his mark,” Petyr spoke slowly, gloating. “Once he leads the North to arms against the crown, we’ll have justification to obliterate them. To squash them into the dust so that they will have no hope of rising up again for ten thousand years.”

Sansa’s stomach knotted at the idea. It sounded like something Petyr _would_ do. 

“The High Septon will annul this marriage, I can prove it’s unconsummated. We’ll place the girl back in Winterfell, the Lady of the Ruins, and she’ll do as we command, just as I told you.” 

Sansa furrowed her brow. _Unconsummated?_ Petyr could prove no such thing. But… until recently, perhaps he could. Was there any truth to what he said? Sansa felt her the hair on her neck raise.

Was it possible he didn’t force her into bed… in case he needed to play both sides and dispose of her? Use her maidenhead - if there was any - for justification like this? 

“Lies! You love her, you want her. She was running away from your lover’s quarrel, I know the truth Petyr!” 

“The truth?” Petyr said, spreading his hands. “Yes, she we had a fight when she learned the truth. Of you, Lysa. Of our plans together.” 

Sansa _knew_ he lied, but his voice was so convincing, she nearly believed it herself, and her body must have, because gooseflesh rose on her arms. In fact, she had trouble sorting out what _was_ real anymore. 

“Then why did you come here? Why are you protecting her, why?” 

“Oh, my love. The Stark girl is better served as our ally, a puppet to install in Winterfell, as I’ve been training her these many months.” 

Petyr clasped his hands back in front, thoughtfully. 

“But… perhaps you’re right, Lysa. Running away like that, she can’t be trusted to do as we tell her.” His matter-of-fact, detached tone made Sansa's stomach flip. 

“We can rid ourselves of the troublesome girl, but must be done legitimately. She must stand trial. Not like this. You’ll incite a rebellion beyond just the North.”

Lysa scoffed. “And who would find the queen guilty? On what charge?” 

“Why, she’s guilty of treason, of course,” Petyr replied, mirth in his voice. “The king declares it. Why else would she have stowed away under a false identity, on a ship she believed to be headed to her former kingdom?”

A chill ran through Sansa. _He’s too good at this. I almost believe him. But he’s playing her._

_Right?_

Petyr moved away from Sansa, taking a step outside the half-wall encircling the moon door. 

“We’ll have a trial by combat,” he proclaimed. “I'll stand and fight. Once she’s dead there’s no need for an annulment. You’re right, my love. It’s cleaner this way.” 

Sansa’s stomach dropped. Did Petyr change course because he could no longer prove they hadn’t consummated their marriage? _Was this plan… real?_

“You’d fight for _her?”_ Lysa moaned. 

“For you.” 

Lysa paused, blinking. 

_What is he doing?_ Sansa wondered, fear rising. 

“As I should have done all those years ago. Not Cat.”

Petyr strode forward now, coming to stand in front of Sansa on the other side of the circle. 

“Oh, my sweet Lysa. My sweet, silly Lysa. I have only loved one woman. Only one. My entire life. You.” 

Lysa didn’t know whether to allow herself to be happy, or to hold onto anger, and her face flitted between both in an ugly display. Sansa shook her head, unable to figure out Petyr’s endgame.

“You’re no fighter Petyr. And who would fight against the king?” she scoffed. But Sansa could see her eyes begin to glisten. Petyr fighting for her, as he'd done for her sister, was a deep-seated wish. 

“We won’t announce the truth of my identity and we’ll name someone smaller, someone you wish to be rid of. We’ll call a few witnesses we can trust. And then no one can say the queen was not found guilty in fairness, her fate served by justice.” 

Was that true? Sure, the Mad King had cruelly disposed of those who displeased him without justice, but things were different now, and she was the queen. Wouldn’t there need to be more… formality? 

Sansa felt her lip quiver as doubt filled her. 

“Oh, Petyr!” her aunt cried out. 

A thin-lipped smile, like the slash of a knife, cracked Lysa’s face, and she started to weep happy tears. Jumping to her feet, she held out her arms - a call for her beloved to come to her, to embrace her.

Sansa’s heart felt as if it began to crack. 

Before he ran to Lysa, Petyr finally turned around to face Sansa. 

His eyes were harder than ever, grey stone glazed in ice. 

Desperately, Sansa searched, but couldn’t read them. Littlefinger had secured his mask, and it _shattered_ her heart. 

Was he angry because he cared for her or was he angry enough that he no longer did? 

Behind Petyr, to the left, a movement from the shadows caught the corner of Sansa’s eye. Something, _someone,_ hid below the dais, near a column. 

The tip of an arrow came into the light. 

Sansa squared her eyes back on Petyr. 

_He’s going to kill us both!_

Her eyes widened in fear, she hoped, sending a message. The only one she was capable of sending, bound and gagged. 

It was Rolder, she knew it. 

Petyr furrowed his brow, watching her. 

Sansa shifted her gaze left, then back at Petyr, pleading, _look. Please understand. Look!_

He turned, with agonizing slowness. 

The tip of the arrow wobbled slightly. Whoever it was had drawn his bow, taken aim. 

There was no time to make any decisions. In that half-second, acting on instinct, Petyr leapt to the left. 

The arrow flew toward Sansa-

-and struck Petyr with a sickening _thwack._

Sansa shrieked into her gag when Petyr collapsed on the floor. 

_Where had it hit him?_

An ocean roared in her ears, deafening, silencing out the room around her, making her head spin. 

_Shoulder or chest?_

Petyr grunted. 

The man to her right abandoned the wheel, barreling toward the form in the darkness with his crossbow raised. The shrouded figure turned and ran, seeking another opportunity, rather than reveal himself. 

“Petyr!” Sansa called his name, but it came out muffled, louder in her head than her throat. She fell to her knees, oblivious to her position on the moon door. 

With another grunt, Petyr pushed himself halfway up, and Sansa was able to see where the arrow struck – above, and to the left of his heart - between his shoulder and chest. 

_Not a fatal wound._ They needed a maester, but it would not kill him. 

Searching, Sansa looked up – and met the hideous snarl of rage on Lysa’s face. 

_No, no, no._

Oh gods. 

At once Sansa knew the truth – and so did Lysa. 

Everything Petyr had done had just been undone, irreversibly. All his efforts to prove he loved her aunt, ruined by his instinct to dive, to place his body in front of Sansa’s. He had protected _her,_ he had saved _her._

No amount of Petyr’s fast-talking could undo that. 

Sansa struggled against the ropes, certain her aunt would kill her now, as Lysa stormed down the steps. She threw herself onto the half-wall encircling the moon door and with an _oompf,_ tumbled over the edge, to the safety of the floor on the other side. Sansa regained her feet, not sure what to do next, only sure she didn’t want to die on her knees. 

Lysa didn’t run for the wheel, as expected. 

Instead she ran to Petyr. 

“Petyr!” Sansa cried, but it was useless to try to shout.

He remained sprawled on the floor, but he’d withdrawn his dagger and clutched it on his right hand, bracing himself against the stone in an effort to rise. 

In a whirl of silver-blue skirts, Lysa threw herself on top of him and Petyr rolled, flipping onto his back. Sansa was sure he was going to stab her before she grabbed the dagger, Lysa hadn’t the strength to overpower Petyr, even wounded. 

But her aunt grabbed the arrow sticking out of Petyr’s chest and pulled it towards her. 

Petyr grunted as it tore through his shoulder, backwards, so that the barbed metal tip ripped through muscle, tissue, and skin, causing much more damage going out than it had going in. Blood gushed from his shoulder, and when his fingers loosened their grip on the catspaw in a reflex to the pain, Lysa wretched the dagger from them. She turned her wild eyes to Sansa. 

_This is it,_ Sansa thought, lifting her chin. _This is how I die._

_At least, there’s a chance Petyr will live._

Sansa closed her eyes, but met her doom on her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not meant to be a cliff-hanger, the next chapter will be up in a day or two! As usual, it was longer than expected and I split it up. 
> 
> There are about three chapters to go. (And they won't all be action/plot.)


	25. Love and Contrition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings - 
> 
> -There is a (very short) mention of attempted rape and a mention of torture (not explicit.)  
> -Petyr is, however, quite explicitly domineering in no way representative of a healthy relationship today. Sansa has lost a little agency, but... this is a combative couple, so, power struggles are a given 'till the end. 
> 
> -I believe I tied up the previous chapter, but I might have thought something and not written it, so just call me out if I missed a step.  
> -Sansa is severely dehydrated, and thus her thoughts muddled. In case it's not clear, she's not an unreliable narrator, but she is a confused/slow-thinking one in some parts.

_“Mother!”_

A deep voice echoed through the hall. 

Sansa’s eyes flew open. 

Her aunt halted. Stilled by the one voice in the realm that could make her do so. Lysa’s head whipped back to see her only son. Behind him, flanking his sides and funneling into the chamber, marched the Knights of the Vale. 

“I command you to stop, in the name of Robin Arryn, Lord of the Vale.” 

Sansa blinked, wondering if the dehydration sent her into full delirium. 

_Were they saved?_

Two guards advanced and the dagger dropped from Lysa’s limp hands with a soft _clang_ onto the stone floor. 

Was this the young man she remembered meeting once, during the wars? 

For a heartbeat Sansa studied him. His rich, dark hair was the same, but Robin had grown tall, handsome… confident? He wore a long, silvery tunic with cut-outs on either side of the fabric, showing another layer of the same swirling-patterned material underneath. Centered below a short, stiff-collar, he wore a falcon pin, much like Petyr’s banded-neck and mockingbird combination. A long cape flowed from strong shoulders and his waist was bisected by a belt bearing a dagger hitched to one side. If Sansa blinked, his attire echoed Petyr’s robes, and, blinking again, unquestionably spoke of his role as his mother’s heir. 

“Robin,” Lysa plead, as the guards grabbed her arms. Sansa let out a long breath, swaying on her feet. 

They _were_ safe. 

Petyr grabbed the forgotten catspaw and stumbled to her. 

“Fetch the maester!” he called, and Sansa heard Robin echo to his guards, “Obey your king!” 

A curious command to repeat. Perhaps they didn’t recognize Petyr? Sansa was too relieved, too light-headed to think on it. 

Petyr quickly cut her bonds. Sansa tore the gag from her mouth and with a sob and folded herself into Petyr’s good side. Grunting, Petyr guided them both gently down on the floor.

“Fetch the maester!” he cried, angrier this time. 

“Petyr, I’m not hurt, you are,” Sansa whispered, but her voice came out so faint and hoarse she couldn’t believe it was her own. The room spun and she fought to keep her eyes open. Her head pounded like never before. Petyr held her with one hand, his other pressed against his chest to stave the bleeding. 

“He’s going to kill us,” Sansa blurted, “he - well, I don’t know his real name - someone you betrayed here in the Vale…” 

Everything she knew spilled out of her mouth as rapidly as she could form the words, speaking over the men surrounding Petyr, assisting in removing his surcoat as he winced. Helpful hands swarmed her too, but she bat them away. 

Only when the maester arrived did Sansa lay down on the floor beside Petyr, and when she closed her eyes, she blacked out. It was as if her body had been waiting, waiting for help to arrive for him, and the instant it did, she could let go. 

#

“Drink this.” 

She looked up to see the young, sandy-haired maester proffering a cup. 

Sansa tore her head to the side, but even that action seemed to increase the ache within.

“He’s going to kill us. Where’s Petyr?” Her voice was even weaker than before.

“Shh…” the maester said. “The king is going to be fine. You’re safe here. The guards are looking for the one who shot the arrow. Drink.” 

“What is it?” she asked. 

“Water,” he replied, gently. “You must drink to replenish what you’ve lost. You're lucky to be alive.” 

Sansa drank, locking onto the master’s kind blue eyes as she did, but it felt like a monumental effort. She had never been so weak. When she finished, he bid her drink another cup. She looked to her left, but Petyr was gone.

“Where’s Petyr?” she asked again, but it came out mumbled as she lay back down on the floor. “Where’s Lysa?” 

She drifted off before receiving a reply. 

When Sansa finally managed to keep her eyes open for good, she was still in the hall and the light had only shifted, not disappeared, so she reasoned it couldn’t have been more than a few hours. She felt a pillow underneath her head. For whatever reason, no one had moved her. 

“Where’s Petyr? We’re not safe-”

“Shh...” the maester soothed. “The High Hall is safe, as will soon be the rest of the castle. The king is right here.” 

He moved aside and Sansa saw him, sitting on the stone wall by the moon door, finishing the last of the clasps on his robes, concealing the bandages underneath. 

_You’re hurt,_ Sansa wanted to say. _Lay down._

But all that came out was, “Petyr!” as he knelt by her side and the maester backed away, giving them privacy. 

Sansa locked her arms around him, nuzzling his cheek, relishing his rough beard and mustache. She didn’t want to ever let go, she _wouldn’t._ She took a deep breath, intentionally inhaling his familiar scent. It felt so good, so perfect being in his arms again. Like the world made no sense before, but now everything had rightened. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered in his ear. The words sounded painfully small against all she’d done. 

“Shh… you’re safe now.”

Petyr said nothing more, only holding her for a long time, his hands lightly rubbing, soothing. 

Sansa didn’t even realize she’d closed her eyes, until Petyr finally spoke and they flashed open. 

“Find every man on that ship, every lord, every knight who aligned themselves with Lady Lysa. Kill them. If you even suspect a man, kill him. In fact, kill any guard who didn’t arrive with Lord Robin.” 

Sansa turned her head and saw the shining white cloaks of the kingsgaurd filling the room. 

So Petyr _had_ come with an army. 

“Petyr, no!” Sansa protested, grabbing his arms. “They didn’t know. The men on the ship, they didn’t know who I was. Most of the knights here, they didn’t, they _couldn’t_ know, I was locked away.” 

She could tell Petyr was unmoved by the hard set of his gaze, so she quickly pressed on, “of course the guilty must be punished, but we can’t kill every lord without certainty, we’ll have no loyal allies left.” 

Sansa clutched at Petyr’s forearms, shaking her head rapidly. She was in no position to argue, but she _had_ to make listen. 

“Do you honestly believe no one here knew who you were?” Petyr bit out. “Who I am? That we both came to stand in this room without some men turning a blind eye or even aiding your aunt? That even Robin was undecided as to whether to let Lysa continue? Many lords in the Vale would see me dead, and you as well if need be. Some of them knew.” 

“And some of them didn’t!” Sansa protested, scrambling. _This_ was what Varys had spoken to her about so long ago, when she’d confronted the eunuch in the gardens. When she asked him why he helped Petyr, a man he admittedly didn’t believe was fit to be king, Varys alluded to his belief that she could temper the worst of Petyr’s impulses. 

But how? Petyr did what he wanted, without heeding anyone, even her. 

“Tywin Lannister,” Sansa blurted, and Petyr looked down, eyes narrowed. “Tywin said that when your enemies defy you, you must serve them steel and fire. But when they go to their knees, you must help them to their feet, elsewise no man will ever bend the knee to you.” 

It _was_ what Tywin had said. At least, that’s what Tyrion claimed. Petyr might not be swayed by the pleas of one, but the words of wisdom combined from her own mouth, that of his Hand, and the formidable Tywin Lannister together, were enough to make him… not reconsider, she saw, but at least pause. Long enough for her to think of something else. 

“You once said that if war broke out, you could protect me better in King’s Landing. I thought you just meant against the every-present threats to the king and queen, but you meant specifically from Lysa, didn’t you? From men like Rolder? You have many enemies, _we_ have many enemies. Don’t create more than you have to. Please,” Sansa said. 

“It’s the best way to protect me, you, _the family we’ll have,_ the dynasty we’ll launch.” Sansa, wide-eyed in her appeal, squeezed his forearms again. 

Petyr blinked, slowly. “I make them fear me, you make them love you, is that it?” he asked. 

“I- I wouldn’t put it that way …”

Petyr worked his jaw. Sansa could tell he was considering it, only partly moved by her logic and equally, if not more, spurred by the inherent promise of a willing, collaborative ruling in her plea. One she wasn’t trying to escape. 

Without moving his head, he lifted his gaze to his guard. Head bent, eyes glaring up, his words were benevolent, but his expression bore only malice. 

“The queen shows mercy today, beyond compare. Round up those suspicious and put them in the sky cells, for now.” 

At the mention of the sky cells, Sansa remembered Mord and gasped. 

“Well, there was _one_ man who knew…” she began tentatively, unsure if she should even tell Petyr when he teetered on vengeance enough to topple the castle to the ground. 

“A guard. The guard to my sky cell.” 

Petyr crooked an eyebrow. Sansa took a deep breath and told him what Mord had done. 

Petyr was eerily quiet, but Sansa saw the muscle in his cheek twitch. 

This time, he did not remove his gaze from Sansa as he commanded to whomever stood behind her, “find the guard called Mord.” 

The hair on Sansa’s neck rose. She wasn’t opposed to meting out justice, but the punishment should fit the crime. And by the dangerous look in Petyr’s eyes, she was sure some horrific, unspeakable fate awaited Mord. 

“Petyr?” Sansa asked. 

He blinked, ignoring her. 

“Petyr…” Sansa tried again, tilting her head to look up into his eyes. 

But he rose and strode out of the hall. As she tried to follow, Sansa’s own exit was blocked by white cloaks. 

She remained, back propped up against the stone wall, drinking cups of water the maester continually pressed into her hands. All she really wanted was a change of clothes, and the throb in her head to abate. The maester assured her that the latter would be achieved with sufficient rehydration. 

Minutes passed, and Petyr returned with four of the kingsgaurd – and Mord, whimpering between them. They dragged the goaler halfway to Sansa and she shot to her feet. 

His face was as white as the marble beneath her. Sansa didn’t know what Petyr was going to do to him, but she imagined he had already whispered Mord’s fate in his ear. 

“Please, m’lady, your grace…” Mord began, until a guard pricked his sword against Mord’s side. He let out a bone-chilling sound between a sob and a scream and closed his mouth. 

“Is this the one?” Petyr asked. 

Sansa licked her lips. “Yes, but-”

“Hold him,” Petyr said, removing his catspaw from its sheath.

“Petyr, no!” Sansa cried. She had the feeling Petyr was going to flay the man’s face. Or cut off his cock. Or both. Neither of which would bother Sansa if he’d raped her or physically harmed her… but the guard hadn’t actually laid a hand on her, when he could have done much worse. Whatever grotesque punishment Petyr had in mind, Sansa didn’t think it would fit the crime. And death would certainly be more merciful. 

_“Petyr,”_ Sansa gritted his name without restraining her displeasure, but he refused to turn. 

“Get her out of here,” he snarled, low. And when his men were slow to obey, “get her out of here!” he commanded again, angrier this time. 

Two guards seized Sansa’s arms as if _she_ were a prisoner. Petyr whispered something to the maester. 

“Let me go,” she demanded, but her own commands fell on deaf ears. Sansa twisted her head to around to watch Petyr as she was marched out of the hall. 

“Let me go! Petyr!” 

The last thing she saw was Mord weeping between two white cloaks as Petyr raised his dagger. 

#

Blinking, Sansa looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling. 

She brought her hand to her aching head and felt something on her finger. She turned it over, stunned to see the ring Petyr had given her, the one she’d left back in their bedroom. 

“You’ll notice it’s much tighter. You’ll need grease and patience, if not a smithy, should you think to take it off again.” 

Petyr stood above the bed. The crown rested atop his gray-and-black hair once more. His lips played at a mocking smile, but it did not touch his dark eyes. 

Sansa’s thoughts came slow; her head, groggy. 

“I suppose I have little cause to worry on that account. Patience isn’t one of your best assets. A failing that caused a great deal of trouble. We’ll remedy that…” Petyr trailed off, then asked suddenly, “how do you feel?” 

Sitting up, Sansa fought to remember what happened last. She’d been locked in her room, had a hasty bath and change of clothes, rehydrated…

“You had the maester slip me something, to sleep,” she concluded, shaking away the haze and folding her arms. 

“You can’t just drug me when you want to do something I don’t approve of-” 

Sansa cut herself off at Petyr’s raised eyebrows. 

_As you did to me?_ they asked. 

She pursed her lips and looked down. 

“I’m… sorry,” Sansa said. “Petyr, I’m so sorry.” 

“Oh? Are you? Perhaps. And yet, not as sorry as you will be, not without proper penalty.” 

His voice was cold, concealing his fury, Sansa was sure. 

“I’ve had plenty of time to think about what to do with you. I have half a mind to permanently shackle you to the bed, Sansa. The chained queen, they’d call you.” 

The chill in his voice evoked a similar response in Sansa and she suppressed a shiver. It didn’t matter that his face remained calm, she could tell Petyr was deadly angry. Sansa wondered what happened while she slept, how many men _did_ die out there, in the halls of the Eyrie. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, tentatively. “Shouldn’t you be resting?” 

“I asked for something to dull the pain, but not my senses,” Petyr replied. 

Sansa opened her mouth to inquire, _can I have some of the same,_ but before she got the words out, Petyr answered the unspoken question.

“No,” he said, jaw set. “You need rest.” 

She let out an exasperated sigh. _As do you,_ she thought, but it was highly unlikely he’d be persuaded when threats to their reign loomed right outside their door.

“Is Ros okay?” Sansa asked, not sure she could handle the answer. 

“I haven’t found the time to visit her cell and inquire.” 

“Cell? No, Petyr! Please,” Sansa implored, her relief at hearing Ros survived immediately replaced by the image of her dearest friend in some dreadful dungeon. “She was only doing as I commanded, she’s my only friend.” 

“That, and her coming directly to wake me after she was attacked, are the only reasons I haven’t executed her already.” 

“What… happened?” 

Petyr paused, considering his reply. 

“When you sailed off, one man stayed behind.” 

Sansa remembered that, the portly one.

“When he tried to rape your _friend,_ she managed to make him believe she enjoyed it. The fool was lost in pleasure when she stabbed him through the neck.” 

Sansa did shudder now, wondering how far the man got. Perhaps Ros was forced to shove a corpse off her naked body. 

“Please, she needs a friend, not a cell. Petyr, she’s suffered enough.” 

“We’ll talk about it later,” he replied. 

“We _will,”_ Sansa insisted. 

“You are not now, nor after this stunt will you soon be, in a position to make decisions without my approval. If you want something, you may ask it of me and you will not argue my decision, is that clear?” 

Sansa chewed the inside of her lip. He’d switched into the fatherly tone he used when she was over his knees, and at the moment, Sansa didn’t have any basis to object. 

Petyr sat on the edge of the bed, wincing slightly. Sansa’s hand instinctively reached out to rest upon his thigh and Petyr cupped Sansa’s chin, rubbing gently with his thumb. 

“My foolish, foolish, girl,” he whispered. His fingers tightened around her face, squeezing, as he admonished, “You shouldn’t have run off like that.” 

Slowly, Petyr forced his fingers to loosen and traced them down her neck, light enough to tickle, but they tensed again when reaching her chest. 

“Sansa,” he rasped her name in that way of his, like a prayer, like he was on his knees before her, but his fingers pressed into her flesh enough to hurt. His jaw clenched with barely-restrained fury, but his eyes watered. Beneath the mask indecision raged -- to worship her or punish her or rip her to pieces until he could reach inside and seize her heart with his hand. 

Sansa’s eyes rounded in wonder as she stared at Petyr, riveted by the rare cracks in the mask. Her mouth parted, breathing heavy. Having such sway over a man, _this_ man in particular, this _king,_ gave her a sense of power that was almost frightening. 

That she wanted it, that Petyr alone was all she wanted, frightened her too. But it also burned in her, somewhere deep within her core and fanning outward, searing even her skin with desire and longing and _love._

_I want_ you, _Petyr,_ she thought, not bothering to conceal the desire written plainly across her face. _I’m not leaving again. No matter what you decide to do to me._

Slowly, Petyr withdrew his hand and brought it to rest on her shoulder. 

Sansa blinked, regaining her composure and turning her thoughts back to their current circumstances. 

“Where’s Lysa?” she asked. 

“Also in a cell,” Petyr curtly replied, disinclined to speak of her. “Though much more comfortable than she deserves.” 

“What happened?” Sansa asked. “Who was Rolder really? Why did Robin Arryn save us?” 

Petyr sighed though his nose. “I’ve been writing to the young Lord Arryn for years, without Lysa’s knowledge, I hoped. Their young, new maester is one of mine.” Petyr flashed a quick, wry smile. “He could keep the letters secret, for his part, at least. Whether Robin shared any of their content is another matter. It’s not easy turning him against his mother, even for his king. Family, duty, honor, _family, duty, honor._ I detest your Tully words. Lysa hammered them into that boy of hers so deeply he’d stand with her against the crown. It was too soon to tell which way he’d fall, until the end.” 

_Always the risk-taker,_ Sansa thought. 

“The one you call Rolder hasn’t been caught,” Petyr informed her, annoyed, and Sansa knew someone would pay for the incompetence, until the man was found and killed. 

“You were right about my enemies,” Petyr said, eyebrows raised in appraisal. “I left many here when I departed, it’s not only Lysa persuading the boy. The Eyrie has been polluted with men who’d see me dead, growing and spreading like weeds in a garden. The maester has been most helpful in identifying several, not all,” he admitted. 

“But I had plans in place to rip every last one from the ground.” 

Petyr smirked, full of ire; his nose wrinkled in unison. 

“And then you ran off. If you would have just stayed put, I would have had the matter dealt with, in time.” 

_If you would have stopped yourself from trying to deceive me again, I never would have been kidnapped me in the first place,_ Sansa thought. _If you would have just told me any of this…_ but she knew it wasn’t the time to press the point. Not until Petyr’s anger cooled. 

_Which may be never,_ she thought. 

Instead, Sansa pondered the future of the Vale. 

“So you allowed Lord Arryn to imprison his mother?” she asked with skepticism. “A cell with all the comforts she requires?” 

She fixed her stare on Petyr, who stared back. Face even, relaxed. But a twinkle she knew well reflected in his green-gray eyes. 

“Lysa’s not going to live long in prison, is she?” Sansa asked. 

“The cook has already been given the poison.” 

“When?” Sansa asked. 

“Within three turns of the moon. It will look natural. This way, Robin’s conscience is clear. He will mourn his mother with less regret. And for our mercy today, we gain a permanent ally in the Vale.” 

Sansa nodded, only wishing it could be done sooner. The thought of that horrible woman remaining alive chilled her to the bone, even as Sansa felt a sort of pity for her. She wondered if her aunt _had_ intended for her to leave the Vale alive, or if she had some plan needing Sansa further, or if, for fear of Petyr she had protected her in some small way. Because Lysa was prepared to kill her _if_ it came to that, but Sansa suspected her aunt had ordered she not to be raped or brutalized. Why else hadn’t Mord or Rolder done worse than they had? 

“What happened to Mord?” Sansa asked. “And that other man, the one at the wheel? Did you catch him?” 

“His name was Marillion,” Petyr said, absently. 

“He’s been killed?” Sansa asked, relieved. 

“Killed? Oh, no,” Petyr said. “But the creature he’s been hacked into bears no resemblance the handsome man known as Marillion.” 

Sansa took a deep breath. She didn’t ask again, assuming Mord met a similar fate, and she’d rather not know the details. 

Petyr moved his hands moved to Sansa’s hair, stroking it. 

After a few moments of chewing on her lip, Sansa worked up the courage to say the full apology she’d been longing to, for weeks in captivity. She never thought Petyr would hurt her, brutalize her like King Robert had been known to beat Queen Cersei… but she feared that if she ever saw Petyr again, his wrath would make him cast her aside… and that would hurt worse than anything. 

“I’m so sorry, Petyr. I’m sorry I drugged you, I’m sorry I lied, I’m sorry I snuck away in the night. I’m so sorry I put our lives in danger.”

Sansa watched anxiously as Petyr continued to stroke her hair. When he spoke, it was as nonchalant as if he were commenting on the weather. 

“When we return to the keep, I’m going to tie you over my desk and belt all defiance out of you.” 

Sansa brought her hand to her mouth, tugging nervously at her lip, keeping her eyes focused on Petyr’s hands. 

_“Look at me,”_ Petyr said, his voice so full of warning Sansa could not refuse. 

“Don’t you dare look away until I tell you.”

She nodded, swallowing at the ferocity in his tone. His words made her want to look everywhere _but_ his face. The looking alone caused her to flush. 

Petyr’s tongue darted out. To anyone else it would seem merely contemplative, but Sansa knew it was a snake-like warning of danger to come. 

“I’d much prefer to punish you now, but we both need to heal. You’re going to become very familiar with the top of my desk, so we’ll begin your acquaintance properly, with the first spanking you will remember for the rest of your life. It surely will not be the last. I should have given you a hard, proper spanking a long time ago.” 

Sansa’s heart raced, she nervously rubbed her thumb across her fingers, and her toes curled in fear. What had all the other spankings been up until now? Play? 

“When we’re done, you won’t be able to sit down for days. You won’t even think about leaving a _room_ without my permission. You will obey every order I give, you will submit without question. Not just in bed, but in all matters.” 

Sansa could scarcely breathe from mortification. She struggled not to look away. 

“If you can someday be trusted, I will allow some freedoms. Until then, every part of you belongs to me – what you’ll wear, who you’ll speak with, how frequently you’re punished – which will most definitely be often. It’s clear you need strict discipline. Do you understand me?” 

Butterflies flew wild, frenzied in her stomach. After all they’d just been through and despite her aching head, Petyr stirred in her that strange excited-fear, deep in her belly. 

Red to the ears, she nodded. 

“Good girl,” Petyr said. “Or, you will be when I’m done with you.” 

Petyr leaned down to kiss her forehead, wincing as he did. 

“You will never run away like that again.” 

And then Sansa’s world turned upside-down as he cupped her face again and whispered, “I love you as I have never loved any other, as I never thought I was capable of loving-”

Sansa’s heart pounded. _Could he hear it?_

Before she could reply in kind, she realized that wasn’t the end of Petyr’s declaration. His fingers caressed her mouth, perhaps imagining further apologies he’d wring from her lips, the promises to be good. 

“-I’m going to punish you with my belt, but I love you. I’m going to punish you with my belt _because_ I love you.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say at that pronouncement, or the way it made her mouth run dry and her heart thump even harder. 

It was wicked, perverse. And she understood _completely._

It’s _us,_ she thought. It’s how _we_ love. 

It was all she ever wanted. 

Wide-eyed, Sansa nodded her compliance, swallowing again in an effort to find words. _I love you, too,_ she wanted to say. And, unbelievably, _punish me, Petyr, I deserve it._

Why couldn’t she? 

_Because it would seem false right now, after running away,_ she told herself. 

But another voice immediately corrected her. 

_Liar. Because you’re scared. Acknowledging it yourself is terrifying enough._

_Admitting it to Petyr…_

What he would do with the knowledge frightened her. 

Sansa had no way of knowing, at the time, that making her _ask_ him to punish her - hard with the belt – was Petyr’s very intention. And something he would require of her often in the future. 

Sansa opened her mouth, faltered, and said only, “take me home, Petyr,” hoping that said it all. 

He leaned down again, but this time he brought his lips to hers, kissing her, and Sansa didn’t even realize how badly she’d been wanting him to, how long she waited, until she felt his tongue in her mouth and it made her dizzy all over again. She moaned in pleasure when he started and in protest when he stopped. 

“I am taking you home,” he told her. “But I’m taking you somewhere else first.”


	26. By Your Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some housekeeping and set-up here, I hope it's not too slow. 
> 
> This chapter works together with the next, so there may seem an unbalance... please let me know if anything doesn't work, but also I ask that too harsh of judgement is reserved because the next chapter is the other "half" that goes together with this one.

Petyr wasn’t going to let Sansa have an orgasm. 

That was the first of her three problems. 

She knew very well he was, at times, purposefully denying her fulfillment. Pushing aside her dress and stroking his fingers along her folds while she whimpered, leaving her flushed and panting and endlessly _wanting._ If she had any doubts, he made it clear the time she neared and he growled in her ear, “Don’t come, Sansa. Don’t you dare come.” 

Other times… he seemed distracted. Absently caressing her thigh, her neck, even her breast, while Sansa’s blood raced and he gazed elsewhere, out the window of the wheelhouse. In those moments it was as if the torment wasn’t conscious at all, and merely a symptom of his inability to keep his hands from touching her, for fear she’d slip away again if he wasn’t holding on. 

The road to Winterfell stretched long before them, and Sansa suspected she’d be screaming with need by the time they arrived. _If_ Petyr even decided that they could finally lay together as husband and wife, once they reached the end of the journey. 

Why he might be refusing to bed her weighed Sansa’s steps as part of her second problem: ceaseless guilt. 

Even though he no longer did, she winced every time Petyr removed his tunic and she saw the new scar upon his chest, a short, puffy red line near his heart. It pressed upon her physically, the mortal danger she courted, and she wished Petyr would just punish her and get it over with. Sansa didn’t know how to apologize for betraying him and how to thank him for saving her life. It all just felt too _big._

Worst of all, Petyr trusted her less now than ever. Which only caused him to tighten his control – her last and thorniest problem. 

When they dined in some tavern or other and she shifted, making move to rise, Petyr’s hand would squeeze around her leg and he’d narrow his eyes to say, _not without my permission._ While it sent a jolt through her stomach and made her clench her legs in excitement, Sansa’s mind raced ahead, and she didn’t think these restrictions on her decisions, on her every move, would serve either of them if they persisted with permanency. But for now, she weighed her response against Petyr’s veiled distress, pain _she_ caused, and complied. 

They reached Moat Cailin after an extended ride and Sansa inhaled the distinct change in the air with pleasure. Despite the biting undercurrent of the bog, the winds blew about the sweet scent of moss, of loam, so different from the sweat and stench of bodies – and bodily fluids – on the streets of King’s Landing. If – _once_ – Petyr began trusting her again, Sansa would request they regularly visit a countryside keep, or perhaps a fortress by the Rainwood. Just to take a break from the capitol now and again. 

Entering the lichen-coated Gatehouse Tower, Sansa had to badly relieve herself and Petyr assembled enough guards to make the ordeal an embarrassment and cause unnecessary delay. 

“You can’t command my every move,” she protested, in a whisper meant for his ears only. 

To which he replied, “Oh, but I can.” 

_Strictly speaking, as my husband, as the king, he can,_ Sansa thought with dismay. 

He could beat her, rape her, kill her, visit upon her any number of tortures far worse than relentless control. 

But. 

Sansa doubted he wanted to stifle her decisions. He only feared she’d betray him again. 

And for her part in destroying that trust, she tried to be pliable. After all, when she turned her wrath on Petyr after his treachery, he had been patient. He had given her what she needed to forgive, to heal. 

It did not escape Sansa’s attention that what she had needed was space -- that she pushed him away when he hurt her -- while Petyr only pulled her nearer, kept her closer at his side. 

The difference made her feel even more regret. 

Nowhere was the guilt more pronounced than in bed their first night on the road, when he brought out the shackles.

“There are dozens of guards outside the door,” Sansa pointed out. “Men loyal to you for years, now bolstered by whoever you picked up in the Vale seeking your forgiveness or your favor. I can’t escape and even if I could, there is nowhere for me to go, barefoot in the night in the middle of nowhere.” 

“And yet you managed to escape the keep.” 

Sansa’s hands wrung the bedsheet. “That was different. I’m not going to do that again. Besides, you said you wouldn’t chain me to the bed.” 

“I said I wouldn’t _permanently_ shackle you to the bed,” he corrected. 

Sansa pulled at the sheet again. Only the gods could escape the small army camping outside the tavern that night. Which meant either she’d driven Petyr to the point of irrationality (unlikely) or he was insisting for a reason. Spite? Sansa was pretty sure it was anger… and something else. 

Littlefinger didn’t let his ego get in the way of his goals, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be wounded. That he couldn’t be petty in revenge. 

I’ve _humiliated_ him, she thought. 

Even if he spun a clever tale, as he was quick to do, there would always be those close to him who knew the truth, _he’d_ always know the truth. 

With that understanding, Sansa offered Petyr her wrists in the hopes that it might withdraw some of his shame by her own, bit by bit, like sucking the poison from his wound.

“Sometimes, when I try to understand a person’s motives, I play a little game,” he told her that night. “I assume the worst. What’s the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say, or doing what they do? Then I ask myself, ‘how well does that reason explain what they say and what they do?’”

Sansa wanted to bury her face in her hands. _What was the worst Petyr imagined?_ That she ran away with the intent to betray him further by returning with an army? That all their encounters were a lie, that she faked any pleasure she found in his arms? That she detested his touch? 

She could see Petyr wrestle his anger by the continued stiffness in his shoulders, the narrowing of his eyes, the distracted drumming of his middle finger against the wheelhouse door as they travelled. She noted his lingering uncertainty, his _grief,_ by the shudder of his breath when she pressed herself against him in bed, kissed him, curled into his body to sleep, tried to make him _see._

 _Chain me if you must,_ she hoped her attentions said. _But I am not leaving._

He did not fuck her, and though he touched her, it never ended with the fulfillment she sought. 

“Orgasms are a privilege, at my discretion. Not a right.” His voice, stern, made Sansa nearly come just from the denial. 

She nuzzled his neck, wiggled her hips against his legs, and ran her shackled hands all over his body, showing more raw desire than she’d ever done before. 

_I’m sorry,_ she hoped her caresses said. _I want you. I’m not running away again._

One night, a few days into their journey, she leaned down and took his cock between her chained hands, stroking, sucking, swallowing his pleasure in a plea she repeated nightly thereafter. 

When Petyr’s hands found her hair and he cried out her name, it pierced her heart with an ache, but also, she hoped, pierced a barrier that had risen between them. 

#

“What was your plan?” Sansa asked, when they were a few days outside Winterfell. “Were you really going to fight for Lysa in trial by combat?” 

Petyr chuckled softly. “No. One of two things would happen. I only required Lysa’s attention until Robin Arryn made the right decision or I had the opportunity to kill her. With my dagger or a push her through the moon door. I just needed you off of it and Marillion’s crossbow to be trained elsewhere.” 

That Petyr would sully his own hands surprised her. For him to do so meant he’d been backed into a corner. 

_And,_ Sansa thought with a sinking feeling, _it was I who’d done the backing._

What else was Petyr capable of, when pushed? 

Sansa remembered his speedy departure from Riverrun to Meereen. The dragon queen had a reputation for trusting the wrong people. Servants, Friends, Guards, Lovers… it was even rumored she nearly chose an enemy slaver as her husband. But Petyr gained and commanded her utmost trust so rapidly and without preamble. 

“When I was held prisoner on the ship, and Rolder confessed to me what had happened all those years ago, I remembered the short time you held Riverrun,” Sansa said. “You vacated my mother’s home rather quickly. And fell into Daenerys’s good graces even faster, ultimately convincing her to name you Hand, then heir. How did you manage that?”

Petyr smirked. “You’re looking for a clever plan again and I regret I’ll be disappointing once more. It’s a tedious story of patience and persuasion. Feeding her choice information about Cersei and other nobles she hoped to defeat, or sway. I don’t always have a trick up my sleeve, sweetling, sometimes persistence wins the day.” 

“Although I flatter myself that my wit and experience played a part no other could have hoped to achieve.” Petyr tugged at his sleeve, straitening the cuff below. “As for departing Riverrun, I think what you’re asking is if I left because you were coming with the Northern army.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows and Petyr shrugged. He smiled but it did not touch his eyes. “A large-scale battle wouldn’t have served either of us at that time. What would I gain? One castle with dwindling provisions full of men eagerly awaiting your arrival. Daenerys was ready to be moved onto the board.” 

Sansa turned and gazed outside the carriage window at the forest of evergreens, chewing over his response. A deep breath filled her nostrils with the piney, Northern air. She wasn’t sure if Petyr held back the full truth. Had their armies come to blows, head on, it would have caused irreparable damage between she and he, a gulf he could never hope to cross. Still, she couldn’t help but be impressed. His maneuverings were remarkably long-range, yet his plotting agile enough to respond to myriad changes. It was mind-boggling.

She turned back to her husband. 

“Are we returning to Winterfell as a display or your triumph or mine?”

“Both.” 

#

It was her home. And yet it wasn’t. It was her room. And yet it wasn’t. 

Sansa blinked, taking in her old bed, the desk, the window she knew so well. It was not the room she’d occupied as the Lady of Winterfell. She had insisted no one be put out on account of their visit. She and Petyr now stood in what was her room as a girl. 

The quiet lasted only a minute. 

Sansa heard the thud of many footsteps and smiled to herself. She’d hoped to arrive without pomp, to not disrupt the castle. Partially out of respect for Jon, and partially because she wanted to avoid awkwardness. To that end, they’d arrived with only a small guard, when Jon and his new bride were out on a morning’s hunt. 

But the King’s retinue assembling outside Winter town wasn’t easily hid. 

Sansa turned to see Jon and a short, freckled redhead by his side. He looked more dashing than ever, a man, grown. A _prince._ Two men she did not know stood behind him -- another redhead, large and bearded, and a portly man with cropped, brown hair. 

Sansa’s heart ached at the sight of her brother, urging her to run to him, and so she did, throwing her arms around Jon. 

“Sansa…” he said, and she could tell he fought a lump in his throat. “You’ve grown… tall.” They shared a laugh as he pulled away and it felt _good._

“Your Grace,” Jon said, bowing his head quickly to Petyr. He’d forgotten to address Petyr first, but the king took no offense. “Winterfell is yours.” 

“She’s the queen who survived the sky cells?” Ygritte asked, her wildling accent coming out thickly as she frowned. “Doesn’t look like much of a fighter.” 

A quiet fell upon the room. 

“Ygritte,” Jon admonished, embarrassed at the sudden tension. 

The redhead gave a quick point with her chin as she spoke, “That’s alright. I hear you wear your strength on the inside.” 

Sansa took in Ygritte’s attire, having come fresh from riding without bothering to change. She wore breeches, like a man, and they were soiled from a hasty path across the muddy stock yards. Her tunic had been roughly cut up the middle to accommodate her swelling belly, leaving two haphazard flaps. 

She had to say something or risk losing respect. 

“She’s the wildling who bears the title princess?” Sansa asked, pointedly eyeing disheveled hair falling from two plaits. “Doesn’t look like much of a lady.”

Ygritte scowled, scrunching up her nose at the slight. 

Sansa gave a warm _calculated_ smile. 

“That’s alright. I hear you wear your splendor on the inside.” 

Ygritte’s mouth fell, slack-jawed in surprise. 

Then she broke into a laugh so hearty it startled Sansa and forced her to join in, cautiously. 

“I told you, Jon, all redheads are kissed by fire, tossing words that burn.” 

It was the hulking, bearded man who spoke, shouldering his way into the room. 

“This is Tormund-” Jon began.

“The Hand of the Prince!” he proclaimed with exuberance. 

Sansa furrowed her brow looking back and forth between Jon and Petyr. 

“Is that a-” 

_Proper title,_ she meant to ask, but Tormund cut her off, smiling. 

“He lets me call myself whatever I like, long as I keep his men in order.” 

Sansa nodded, sensing the other wildling was something more encompassing than a master-at-arms, but less politically strategic than a Hand. 

“And this is Samwell,” Jon said, indicating the nervous-looking man lingering in the doorway. “Our new maester.” 

“Your Grace,” Samwell bowed to Petyr. “Your Grace,” he bowed again to Sansa, and she made note to pry from Jon later the story behind what brought this young man to Winterfell in such a role. 

“Sneaking into the castle,” Jon said. “I’d expect that of Arya, not you.”

“She’d probably have met with more success,” Sansa allowed. 

“She wouldn’t arrive with a small army,” Jon replied, grinning.

Another figure entered the doorway. Leather-covered shoulders hunched, head bowed. 

_Theon._

He shifted his weight from foot-to-foot, his eyes followed the motion. 

Before he could speak, Sansa ran to him, threw her arms around him. She held on to her brother for a long time, squeezing, oblivious to the rest of the room. 

“Sansa, can you forgive-” he began, but she cut him off. 

“There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered. 

#

Sansa awoke in the middle of the night to find her bed empty. 

Even in the haze of sleep, it only took her a moment to throw on her robe, guessing where Petyr might have gone. 

Sure enough, she saw the back of his lean torso sitting on their bench in the glass gardens. He didn’t turn when he heard her arrive, just stared ahead at the budding plants. 

It was so quiet inside, sheltered from the winds, from the nocturnal sounds of animals in the wood, from the bustle of the castle. Spring plantings flourished, absorbing the echo. 

The soundlessness made Sansa’s every move more pronounced, gave the gardens a reverence. She listened to her own breath as she approached Petyr. 

She could hear his too, when she neared. 

Sansa studied her husband, just as dashing now as when she’d first met him. She’d always thought he hadn’t aged much since then, and it was true. But for the first time, she wondered if part of it was because he had aged so rapidly, so prematurely, as a boy. Did he gray at the temples as he became disillusioned with the songs? Work fine lines into the corners of his eyes from long hours bent over scrolls and letters as he laid plans? 

Since becoming king, since marrying her, he’d almost… slowed, even reversed some of it. There was a playfulness to Petyr’s manner at times, a hopefulness. Like some of the boyhood dreams denied, he allowed to sprout again. At least, before she’d escaped. 

Dark eyes locked on hers. 

“How long have you been waiting for me?” she whispered, standing above him. 

“Some time now,” he replied. 

His musing tone made Sansa wonder if he meant more than just that evening. 

Wordlessly, he reached out and untied the belt at her waist. Sansa wore no small clothes, so when Petyr tugged the garment off her shoulders, she stood bare before him, lean and pale. 

His eyes roamed hungrily over her breasts, the flat of her stomach, down to the patch of red between her legs. She sucked in her breath and tried not to squirm under the quiet scrutiny, which made her feel more naked than when they were both unclothed together, in bed. 

“Kneel,” he rasped. And she remembered. 

By the look in his eyes, Petyr did too. Almost six years ago he’d commanded the same, in the very same spot. When she was just a silly young girl and he a minor lord. 

Sansa knelt, playing along. 

Petyr’s hand reached for her lips, and she opened her mouth without being told, sucked his fingers as she’d done so long ago. 

One nod of his head to the floor and Sansa laid on her back and spread her legs, just as she’d done the first time Petyr put his fingers inside her. 

But he didn’t immediately reach where she ached. Instead, Petyr knelt and kissed her wrist, then up her arms at a slow, deliberate pace. He brushed his lips over her neck and breasts, breathing warmly, tingling her skin and making her sigh. He moved down to her feet, up her shins, pressing his lips gently to the side of her knees, causing her hips to wiggle in anticipation. He gradually kissed every inch of her parted thighs, and Sansa knew the scent of her arousal was impossible for him not to catch. 

When he finally kissed her cunt, her eyes felt like they rolled back into her head and her moan was as guttural as if she’d climaxed, and not just felt the first soft graze of his lips.

He took all of her in his mouth, his fingers, licking and stroking Sansa to shuddering. 

“Please. Petyr, don’t stop. Please, Petyr, Petyr,” Sansa plead. 

But he pulled away before she reached the end she desperately sought, permitting only exquisite torture once more. 

Sansa’s hands fisted and she groaned in frustration. She could feel her wetness spread across her thighs. With ragged breaths, she tried wrangle her desire, which urged her to _fuck, Petyr_ and complete the job herself. 

She might have even done so if she could finish in time, consequences be damned. But she knew if she moved her hands from her sides, it would only result in Petyr catching them, and somehow contriving to make her denial even worse. 

Was he echoing the first night? When he put his fingers inside her, but didn’t let her come? Or was he still angry, and this was further punishment?

How much longer would it continue? 

Sansa lifted her head and watched Petyr lick his fingers clean with relish. It soothed some of her disappointment, to see how much he still desired her. 

“Why?” she whispered. 

He didn’t answer the question. Or he did, but she didn’t understand it. 

“I have a surprise for you tomorrow evening.” 

“I don’t like surprises,” Sansa said. 

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you.”

“What is it?”

“I can’t tell you that.” 

“Why not?” she demanded. 

“Because I like surprises.” 

Petyr ran his fingers up her slit again and she groaned, eyes fluttering shut and thrusting her hips up for more pressure that never came. When she heard his whisper it was against her ear, accompanied by Petyr’s warm breath. 

“And besides, naughty little girls who run away don’t get to come until daddy says so.”


	27. I am His, and he is Mine

Sansa stared when she opened the box and saw her wedding dress. 

_Be a good girl and put this on, won’t you?_

The note within bore the same words he’d written months ago, when she entered King Petyr’s carriage and found shackles on the pillowed seat. 

He must have dispatched riders from King’s Landing to deliver the box, before they even left the Vale. Sansa titled her head and furrowed her brow. 

Petyr was waiting for her right now… somewhere. _What exactly was he planning?_

Sansa’s lip curled into her ghost-of-a-smile. Petyr loved when she wore these fashions that left much less to the imagination than her Northern attire. The shimmery dress flattered her lithe figure well enough that whatever control Petyr thought he had on the situation, Sansa flattered herself that she could wrest it from him, simply by walking. 

As she slid it over her shoulders, the gown draped teasingly from her subtle curves, making her feel like a goddess from across the Narrow Sea. Sansa ran her hands along the silky fabric and found it free from tears she remembered sustaining at the bedding ceremony. She hadn’t seen the dress since then… 

Or thought much about it, she realized, closing her eyes against another wave of guilt. 

Petyr must have kept it somewhere, seen to its repair. 

Unsure about the audience she’d face, Sansa ran her fingers through her hair to tame it. There was no time to put it up, but she didn’t really want to. Petyr liked it down. So what if it covered the crystal-studded mockingbird on the back? She could always sweep her hair aside, if needed. 

“My Queen,” a member of the kingsguard bowed when she opened her bedroom door. “If you’ll follow me, please.” 

Were they headed to the sept, to marry again in the presence of her loved ones? Was that Petyr’s surprise? 

Sansa walked behind the white cloak, stomach aflutter. She followed the glow of his torch through the halls she knew so well, out the door of Winterfell’s Great Keep, and into a still and cloudless night. 

But the guard surprised her when they turned in the opposite direction from the sept. 

Sansa followed, until they reached the edge of the godswood. The man passed Sansa the torch, and spread out his arm, indicating that she should continue in that direction. Alone. 

“Is the king in there?” she asked, and he nodded. 

_What was Petyr up to?_

Sansa walked through the forest, lifting the hem of her dress with one hand. Curiosity and excitement spread through her body; she felt as she had when she’d sneak off to meet Petyr as a young girl, or when she’d wait for him in her bedroom at King’s Landing, never knowing what delights were in store for the evening. (And she _had_ to now admit, even when he vexed her, even when she believed she hated him… she did delight in all the blush-worthy things he did to her in bed.) 

She found Petyr, alone, next to the heart tree, and her heart pounded at the handsome sight of the king in his black finery. 

A path of torches lit the way, an aisle in the wood. 

For as dashing a man he was, he looked astoundingly out-of-place. 

The impeccable, immaculately dressed Petyr the Prosperous, standing straight-backed for a ceremony of any kind, anywhere other than in King’s Landing, before an audience of courtiers… 

“This isn’t you.” Sansa said, when she reached him. 

He took the torch gently from her hands, and placed it in a ready hold, staked in the ground by his side. 

“No, it’s you.” 

Sansa tilted her head. 

“I used to avoid the godswood. A trifling superstitious, I admit. As if the gods couldn’t see into my plans by my absence. After we met, I began to visit the heart tree with frequency. The solitude benefited my need for space, to think. But sometimes I just… stood. Beneath its boughs, for hours.” 

A smile played on Sansa’s lips. “Are you saying I drove Lord Baelish to prayer? You begged something of the gods?” 

Petyr looked up, a near eye-roll, as he chuckled. “I wouldn’t say that.” 

His face shifted, turning earnest. “I came to see the weirwood as connected to you, my love,” he said placing his hand upon her shoulder. “With its white bark so like your pale skin, and crown of red setting it apart from all others, and your persistent Stark ties to the old gods.” 

He said the last part with some irritation. 

Sansa imagined Petyr, a most impious man, sitting beneath the heart tree, unable, _unwilling,_ to banish her from his thoughts. A warm feeling spread throughout her body. 

“They say you cannot lie when facing the tree, that the old gods will know. They say the weirwoods have magic, that they speak amongst themselves.” 

Sansa knew all this, but she listened to Petyr lecture all the same. 

“Sometimes I pictured you here, in the godswood of Winterfell, at the same time I stood by the heart tree in King’s Landing…” he trailed off, perhaps a challenge for Sansa to fill in the rest? 

She reached out, lacing her fingers through Petyr’s, her heart careening against her rib cage. 

“And you imagined the trees connected us. Spoke on your behalf? A holy plea to aid a wicked man?” she teased, before concluding, “you imagined I _felt_ you through them.” 

Petyr ran his hand down her arm. 

“I am desperately sentimental, sweetling. Best not tell anyone. I have spent years convincing the court that I am wicked and cruel, and I should hate to see that hard work for naught.” 

He tossed the words about boldly, jesting, but Sansa knew she’d hit some truth underneath. 

She also sensed they’d reached the extent of his comfort on such topics. They lived in a world of Faceless Men, of Dragons -- and if Jon was right, the dead hunted the living beyond the Wall. But Petyr’s world was one of coins, of cyvasse, of conniving. Things he could count on, could craft. And that was okay with Sansa. Even if he spoke no further tonight, it was more than enough. 

“Are we here to marry again?” she asked. 

“The old way,” he agreed. From within his cape, Petyr withdrew a circlet of silver Sansa recognized. “I thought it might have a better outcome this time.” 

Sansa bowed her head and Petyr placed her crown on top. She caught the light etching of the leaves and wondered if he’d had them crafted because he linked her with the heart tree, a secret he’d kept until now.

Gods, she loved him. Everything about him. All the beautiful, horrible contradictions. 

The way his eyes stared, darkly, then laughed with boyishness at a moment’s notice. His lips, thin and masculine, quick to twitch with a mischievous smirk. His body, lean like a youth, yet crowned with silver-threaded hair that spoke of aged wisdom. 

The way he loved with a raw, unbridled passion, but he walked, danced, dressed, _spoke_ with an elegance unmatched by any lord. 

The way he was cruel to others… and helpless for her. 

Sansa didn’t think it was proper, or even moral, but she loved that. How safe it made her feel. How adored. 

Petyr took her hands. 

There was no septon, no guests, nothing but she and Petyr, saying their vows in the presence of the heart tree. 

_I am his, and he is mine._  
_I am hers, and she is mine._

When her husband kissed her, Sansa felt a stirring, low in her belly, and between her legs. 

“Is this what we were waiting for on our journey?” she whispered. “Take me back to our room Petyr. I can’t wait any longer.” 

He worked his jaw and she could tell something was wrong. 

“What is it?” Sansa asked, with a sinking feeling. 

“There’s another surprise, my love.” He titled his head in the direction of the castle. “They’re preparing a wedding feast. Many guests are arriving as we speak.”

A feast? That would take _hours._ And who’s to say if Petyr wouldn’t claim he was too tired or give some other excuse after? 

Sansa shook her head, backing away. 

“No,” she said. She couldn’t stand another day, another _minute._ She’d been the blushing maiden with Petyr for _months._ She was done with all that. 

Reaching down to lift her dress she said, “the queen will not be kept waiting.” 

“Sansa.” 

A warning.

But she wouldn’t hear it. Feeling bold, as bold as Petyr, Sansa lifted her dress over her head and tossed it gently onto the ground beside her. She slid her slippers from her feet.

Her face broke into a smile when Petyr’s eyes widened at her nakedness. 

“My king,” she teased, biting her lip. “You can fuck me right here, right now, or… or…” she scrambled. She didn’t actually have a plan. 

“Or I’m going to do it myself. I’m going to run back to our room, naked as a my nameday and touch myself, the way you showed me how. Remember? When I was a young girl and you put my fingers inside me? _In my cunt?”_ Sansa made herself say the words, and at the flash in Petyr’s eyes she knew they had the intended effect. 

She took two steps back. “Although I doubt I’ll make it before one of your guards spies me. Do you think he could help?” she taunted. “I am desperately in need of assistance, do you think one of your strapping, young guards could help a maiden in distress?”

Petyr lowered his head, staring darkly up at her with narrowed eyes. He was not amused by her threat. 

It didn’t matter. She was. 

Biting her lip again and waving her shoulders back-and-forth, Sansa took another two steps away from him. 

Petyr shook his head, sharply. “Sansa, we don’t have time-”

 _Lying in front of the heart tree,_ Sansa admonished. _Or, giving excuses. He just doesn’t want to get dirty._

“I’m standing here naked and you haven’t taken your bride yet. I’m insulted, Petyr. In fact, I’ve changed my mind. You’re not _allowed_ to touch me.” 

With those words, Sansa did what she wanted him to do, and brought one hand to her breast, the other, between her legs. Rubbing, she let her head fall back as she moaned. 

Sansa couldn’t _look_ at Petyr without desiring him. To watch his lips move, was to want them pressed to hers. To see his chest was to long for its bare expanse pushed against her breasts. And his hands, _oh,_ his hands. When her eyes fell upon them, she pictured them pulling at her waist, grabbing her ass, exploring every naked inch of her body. 

If Petyr felt even half of what she did when she looked at him, he’d be tortured out of his mind right now. 

She brought her head back up and was gratified to meet the half-crazed lust coloring Petyr’s face. 

Sansa laughed, cruelly. Then she bolted, running away from the heart tree. 

She was shocked, not that Petyr followed, but that he nearly caught up in seconds. 

For a man who thought running beneath him, he was faster than he had any right to be. 

Sansa made a sudden turn, laughing and ducking through the trees, back to the weirwood. 

Strong hands grasped her waist and she gasped. She felt the rich fabric of Petyr’s surcoat against her back, enveloping her, as Petyr lifted her off the ground. 

He laid her down while she kicked and laughed, pushing him off and wiggling from his grasp whenever she could. 

It wouldn’t have been much of a fight, but Petyr had to hold her beneath him while he struggled to remove his tunic and the double effort frustrated him, so that Sansa was laughing so hard she could scarcely breathe. Every time Petyr released her arm to undo a clasp or inch down his breeches, Sansa got her arm free or squirmed out a little further from under him so that he had to start the whole process over. 

When he was finally naked enough, Petyr pinned Sansa’s arms above her head with one hard press, and wedged himself between her legs. 

Without warning he pushed as far inside her as he could go. 

Sansa immediately ceased struggling. Her laughter transformed into a moan she hoped the trees absorbed. 

Petyr kept her arms secured against the ground as he fucked her, and Sansa only wanted him to let her go so she could hold him in return. But feeling his strong hands against her wrists turned her on too. The only thing she could do was arch up to meet his thrusts, press her clitoris against his groin. And so she did, bucking. 

His cock filled her so deliciously, Sansa thought she was made to receive it. She _burned_ with desire. She no longer cared if she was in the seventh hell. If she was fucking the demon lord right there in the godswood. Let the fires burn all around her, let it consume them both. The flames felt _good._

She was dizzy, as giddy as if she were drunk, lost in love and lust and _Petyr._ From weeks of teasing, her body had been humming, tightly wound. 

The hot feeling within became too much for her to hold, as if it pushed she and Petyr to some edge, as if she flew along the border between the mortal universe and the mysterious realm of the gods, tettered on something beyond her understanding, the threshold of the infinite. 

With a flash behind her eyes it transmuted, and Sansa felt full and ready to burst, like the clouds before heavy rain. When her orgasm came it was a storm, wild and fierce and consuming Petyr with it. 

“Petyr, Petyr,” she cried his name, feeling powerful as her climax broke his restraint. The short, stiff thrusts told her he was coming too. 

“Sansa,” he groaned her name in her ear, spent. His beard scraped against her cheek. She felt the weight of him as he still pinned her down. “Sansa, Sansa…” 

#

Winterfell had never before hosted such a feast, and it was only just beginning. 

Most of the dishes had been prepared in Winter town, to hide them from the queen, but now that she’d arrived the kitchens became a flurry of activity. The great hall swelled with lords and ladies pouring in from all over the North. They joined the stableboys, the guards, the scullery maids, the farmers and gardeners of Winterfell, until the room was bursting at the seams and many were forced to stand in the halls. They did not seem to notice, as tables were brought in from any spare room by strong men holding aloft horns of ale in one hand, laughing and spilling their contents onto the floors, and adjacent feasts popped up along the corridors. 

Sansa’s kingdom had never before enjoyed a daughter of Winterfell as Queen of the Andals. They had never before pledged their banners to a Prince of the North. They never before achieved such independence as they had now, not since the uniting of the seven kingdoms. 

If the amount of spirits consumed was any indication, everyone believed this was cause for the greatest celebration. 

Petyr was especially proud, even a little smug, and to anyone else the king might seem a bit haughty or narcissistic. But Sansa saw he swelled with pridefulness when he looked at _her._ That she was the cause of his vainglory, and it made her feel beautiful. 

The secret Petyr hid, the barrier he’d put up on their travels, was only about the wedding, she thought. Or perhaps, speaking their vows in from of the weirwood helped him believe her loyalty. Because he had fully returned to the charming, keenly devoted man she loved. He’d even confessed he released Ros. Sansa had never felt so supremely happy. 

Winterfell didn’t have the same stores of wine King’s Landing held, but she and Petyr enjoyed one of the limited bottles of Arbor Gold. 

Beneath the table, Petyr stroked her hand with a warmth she hadn’t felt from him in a while. 

“I’m so glad you’ve forgiven me, Petyr, that you _understand_ now. I am sorry for what I did, and I am never leaving like that again.” 

Sansa had only half-drank her sip of wine when, amidst all the chatter and celebrating, the thought came that made her tear the glass from her mouth and slam it on the table. 

_No…_

She turned to Petyr, eyes flashing. The hand holding the wine glass fisted the stem. 

“You didn’t _just_ forgive me, did you?” Sansa asked, chest beginning to rise and fall with short, quick breaths. 

“For weeks, I’ve been bending over backwards to make it all up to you, to prove to you that I regret what I did, that I’m not leaving your side… and you already knew that, didn’t you?” 

She blushed, picturing _how_ exactly she’d been contorting herself, nightly, in seeking his understanding. 

“Every night I’ve been soothing your bruised pride, your wounded ego. But you’re not so wounded as all that. _Are you?”_ She banished the unwelcome thought, _soothing it with my tongue._

Petyr’s mouth twitched. 

_Son of a…_

“Only a fool would waste such splendid contrition as yours, deny such a determined and dutiful apology.” 

_…bitch._

The hint of mockery in Petyr’s tone revealed his amusement at the confession, the sardonic enjoyment of Sansa’s flush-faced shock. 

Her mouth fell open, stunned. 

He hadn’t been chaining her in spite or fear or even out of hurt. 

Oh, no. He had done it simply because he enjoyed it! And she meekly acquiesced – nay, she’d felt so remorseful she'd _gone to her knees and took him in her mouth._ Because _she_ felt guilty she drove poor, humiliated Petyr to such extreme acts of bondage. While he sat back and… _relished her attempt to please him._

The godsdamn bastard. 

Sansa reddened to the ears. If she wasn’t sitting in the Great Hall surrounded by lords and ladies, she’d have howled. As it was, she slammed her fist onto the table, causing the plates to jump and those nearby to give a sidelong glance. 

She shot to her feet and stormed out of the room. Petyr followed, like a dog at her heels, as she ducked into the hall. But he smirked all the way. 

 

Ygritte watched the frosty queen and strange king with open curiosity, her slight scowl fading. Sansa wasn’t so cold now, she thought. And King Petyr wasn’t so stoic, standing in a shadowy alcove, arguing with one another. 

This type of passion Ygritte could understand. She rubbed her belly, round beneath the cross-crossing ties the queen insisted on sewing into her tunic. Ygritte had to admit it wore more comfortably this way. Maybe she would drop a hint to Sansa that she would _suffer_ another alternation or two, before the royals departed. 

“They fight like us,” Ygritte told Jon, and he turned to follow her gaze. 

“Worse,” he remarked. 

The king suddenly grabbed his queen by the waist and she flinched and fought him, bending in an arc that reminded Ygritte of a fish flopping for air as it’s pulled from the water -- the king a bird swooping to catch the prey in its mouth. Which he soon did, literally, his lips finding the queen’s, making her shudder, and still. 

If the queen was a fish and the king a bird, the moment marked the consuming of his quarry, a little death. 

But Ygritte could tell by the desperate return of the long kiss that the queen rather relished being devoured by her fancy king. 

#

“Go,” Petyr said, his mouth forming the “o” long and low, determinedly, with false force. 

_He doesn’t want me to leave him,_ Sansa thought, charmed. _But he knows I’d want to be with them on this last night._

Sansa planted a kiss on her husband’s cheek. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, before taking Theon’s arm to join her family in a final supper before her departure. They’d spent only five days at Winterfell. Time enough to rest their horses, regale the men, and for her to see the truth of her brother’s princeship with her own eyes. Not to mention, time enough for Maester Samwell to brew moon tea for Sansa. She wished they could remain longer, but Petyr promised they would visit again, before too many years passed. 

Sansa was not surprised to find Ygritte by Jon’s side when she arrived, but she was surprised to see Samwell Tarly smiling nervously at the table. 

The feast was small, but fine. A boar slowly roasted with apples and spices, it’s glazed skin golden and crackling and scenting the air well before Sansa even stepped inside the room. Paired with the aroma of the wood smoke in the fireplace, it sent a joy right to Sansa’s heart to remember the warmth of her childhood home, of family. 

The table was also set with pease porridge, buttered carrots, and salad greens dressed with wildflowers Ygritte picked herself. They drank much mead and with each passing cup, Theon came further out of his shell. Sansa believed it wouldn’t be long before he was back to his old self. The thought brought her comfort for many reasons, not the least of which because Jon needed a brother he could rely on, especially since Bran showed no signs of soon returning. 

For dessert the servants brought a rare treat – little cakes of honey-and-ginger from across the Narrow Sea, a gift from Pentos to the newly crowned prince. When her brother explained ginger root to Sansa, she only nodded silently, trying to contain her blush. After dinner they drank spiced, mulled wine Jon had developed a taste for at the Wall, even though the night’s air was only slightly chilly. 

A quiet descended over the room when they’d finished the last morsel of cake, drunk the dregs of the wine. 

Sansa had lived through enough to read it as serious, to understand that something possibly dangerous was happening, even though she didn’t know exactly what was to unfold.

She looked at Theon, Samwell, Ygritte, and finally, her brother. He was looking down, at his empty glass. 

“Jon?” Sansa asked, tentatively. 

He looked up. The pause seemed to go on for several minutes, not seconds. 

When he spoke, he began a tale that astounded Sansa more with each word. She covered her mouth, shook her head. Not in denial – Samwell confirmed the story, and somewhere inside, Sansa knew it to be true, as well – but as merely a reflex, in shock. 

It took a minute for the dust to settle in her mind, re-imagining Jon not as her half-brother, but as her cousin. Re-casting her father – not as lax in his marital vows, but as steadfast in his familial duty, his love. 

Quietly, once she’d sorted that out in her mind, it raced ahead, as it was made to do. And Sansa saw the possibilities – both past and present – rippling out, forking. 

She clenched her jaw and exhaled one deep, heavy sigh through her nose. 

She understood what Jon did not. She could see what had happened, that he did not.

Because she understood the man who made it happen. 

#

With the passing of the spring storms, Petyr and Sansa journeyed from White Harbor back to King’s Landing by boat. Less important guards, squires and stewards formed a secondary party and made their way back by wheelhouse, horse, and foot. Those from the Vale who accompanied the king and queen in order to prove their newfound allegiance, returned humbly to the Eyrie with the king’s gracious forgiveness – and watchful eye. 

Petyr and Sansa had no sooner adjourned to their cabin on the first night, when she straddled her husband in bed. 

Sansa let her face soften, eyes widening with devotion. _Easy,_ she cautioned herself. If she grinned with unbridled lust, it would raise Petyr’s guard. 

She could tell by his eyes he didn’t know what she was up to. Or, if he had suspicions, he couldn’t confirm them.

Sansa leaned down slowly, trailing fingers along his waist…

When she reached his catspaw, she yanked the dagger from its hold and shoved the point against Petyr’s groin. 

She wanted to bring it to his throat while she questioned him, but it took a moment longer to extract the blade than she would have liked, and she didn’t want to chance Petyr grabbing her wrist before she had the chance to press it to him.

Petyr stiffened, lifting his hands from where they had been – reaching for Sansa’s waist – and slowly moving them up and to his sides, palms-open in a signal of surrender. 

Given the choice, Petyr might value his tongue over his cock, but his manhood certainly couldn't be but a hair behind. 

Sansa pinned Petyr with her ice stare. 

He said nothing about the sudden development of a blade between his legs, merely waited. She watched as he licked his tongue over his teeth as if debating how to react. His eyes, sharp, wary, but… _cautiously intrigued,_ Sansa thought, annoyed. 

She scowled and pushed the tip of the blade up further, so that he could feel it under his breeches. 

“How did you know about Jon’s parents?” she demanded, getting right to the point. 

Petyr titled his head. “How did _I_ know?” he repeated, mockingly. “Tell me. How did Jon know?” 

Sansa blinked, shaking her head.

_So it was true._

“Howland Reed came to Winterfell. He told Jon about the Tower of Joy. The new maester, Samwell, confirmed it was likely from a book at the Citadel. In his private diary, the septon recorded the marital annulment of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell, and the subsequent, secret marriage of Rhaegar and Lynana Stark.” 

Petyr raised his eyebrows. “Now that I didn’t know. Not with any certainty.” 

“But you knew Jon wasn’t my father’s bastard. You knew Rhaegar was his father, and my aunt, his mother. How?” 

Petyr tried to lower his hands, but Sansa pressed the catspaw against his cock once more and he raised them again, fingers spread. 

“It didn’t take much to figure out the child wasn’t Ned’s boy,” Petyr said. “The honorable Ned Stark comes home with a mysterious bastard he refuses to speak of? I don’t think so. At the same time, a story spreads that Rhaeger kidnapped Lyanna and raped her? No. Neither your father nor Rhaeger was capable of either transgression. A betting man would wager that baby was Lyanna’s, not your father’s. As it happens, I am a betting man.” 

“I know what you did,” Sansa snarled as she spoke. 

“Do you?” Petyr asked. 

“You didn’t give Jon Winterfell to make amends, to show how sorry you were. You did it to neutralize him,” Sansa declared, lifting her chin. 

“You said you gave me the power over your throne, as if to make up for all you’d done. But that wasn’t really the case, was it? Putting power in my hands was just a consequence of needing a situation in which to move Jon, a pawn,” Sansa explained. _“If_ he found out that he’s the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, he might give thought to claim it. Or rather, others might push him to do so. Jon without a home or a proper name for his family is more likely to listen to their encouragement. But, Jon already happily squared away in Winterfell, the home he always wanted… well. That’s a problem solved. A problem never begun in the first place.” 

Sansa tiled her head as she continued. “A betting man would hope that he never found out, or, if he did, he’d be contented to remain quietly in Winterfell. But… as added assurance, should any stirrings come out of the North, you hoped your loving wife would soothe over any tension, convince the Targaryan boy, her devoted brother, not to take arms,” Sansa accused. 

“On the other hand, you _did_ take a calculated risk elevating his position to Prince of the North,” she admitted. "It could have gone either way."

“A bastard wandering the countryside could call few banners to his aid. But a man in command, with the Stark name, suddenly revealed as heir to the Iron Throne? That _is_ a greater threat. Jon would never listen to you, as you said. But he would listen to me, to family. So yes, you did put the power in my lap. But you didn’t have much of a choice,” Sansa concluded. 

Petyr’s face softened with repentance, but his eyes twinkled, and Sansa nearly threw her head back, frustrated. He enjoyed watching her work it out. 

_Well, let’s see what he thinks of this next bit,_ she thought. 

“And what’s more, you’ve known about Jon a long time, haven’t you?”

Petyr licked his lips but did not reply. 

“It’s how you won over Daenerys Targaryen, isn’t it? You must have told her about the secret existence of her nephew, a male Targaryen who could challenge her claim. You dangled promises of locating him. Maybe you ‘found out’ new information, got closer all the time, giving her false hope… until finally, in exchange for revealing his identity, you made the Dragon Queen name you her heir. That’s right, isn’t it?” 

“It’s… surprisingly accurate,” Petyr allowed. 

Sansa scrunched up her nose. “I knew you’ve been lying about something. I thought it was the wedding, or that you fled Riverrun because of me.” 

“Daenerys was going to kill Jon,” Petyr said, quickly. “When I first informed her about your brother, I thought she might seek to marry him. It is the Targaryen way, to marry brother to sister, after all. And she did consider it. But after she took King’s Landing,” Petyr shook his head, slowly, “her bloodlust was such that it became Jon’s death sentence. I had no choice but to kill Daenerys when I did, or else she was going to fly North and eliminate the threat of his claim, with his execution.” 

Sansa scoffed, baring her teeth. 

“Don’t say you dare say you did it for me when I know you did it for you.” 

“I did it for us.” 

Sansa paused, searching Petyr’s face. 

He could have let Daenerys kill Jon. _He_ could have killed Jon, knowing her brother’s continued existence would always threaten the Baelish crown. But Petyr didn’t. 

And the only reason could be… her. 

The crux of the matter was, Sansa couldn’t even tell if Petyr worked no murderous plot against her brother so as to not hurt her… or to use the fact that he spared Jon’s life to manipulate and control her. Petyr certainly wasn’t above taking advantage of that result. 

She was mystified to find she was unable to parse out much truth to Petyr’s assertion. 

If their fates weren’t already tangled by the bloody gods, Petyr had seen to it that they were. Too many years, too many machinations. Too much ingraining of his person into hers, so that Sansa could no longer tell where her wants ended and his began, where her _thoughts_ ended and his began. 

So young he’d come to her, ensured that however twisted they were _singularly,_ he’d work the roots, the branches, to twist and twine them together, so that it presented above - their public persona of king and queen - and below, much deeper - in the shared intimates of their bed, their goals, their minds, their souls. 

_I am his, and he is mine._

Sansa couldn’t separate Petyr’s motives any more than she could separate herself. They were locked, like trees grafting upon one another as they grew. She wondered if they’d ultimately be so entwined as to look like one tree. Like the reliefs adorning the columns in the throne room -- the secondary sigil Petyr often bore along with his words _knowledge is power._

Petyr’s brow furrowed as he studied Sansa in return, and she knew he could see her throughs race across her face, but couldn’t tell what they were, and that worried him.

Without removing the dagger from between his legs, Sansa took her free hand and laced her fingers through Petyr’s dark hair, holding him in place while she bent down and caught him off guard with a kiss. 

He still bore a strange expression in his eyes when she withdrew, but his mouth curled up on one side, in pleasure. 

“What do you want?” Sansa asked. 

“I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe.” 

“I am safe. You’ve more than seen to that.” 

“What about happy? What do you want that you do not have?” 

_I want you to know that I’ve been burning with you in that seventh hell for months, possibly years, and I’m wildly in love with you. It’s the only thing that stirs my blood._

“I want…” 

_But you’re not trustworthy._

“I want to revise the terms of our deal. I want to make a new deal.” 

Petyr cocked an eyebrow. 

“I will submit to everything you say, in bed, as you’ve always wanted. Without protest or question.” 

Petyr lowered his head and gazed up, hard, a look of impatient disbelief. 

“I’ll…try,” Sansa amended. _“If_ you keep no more secrets from me. No more lies.” 

“I’ll try,” he returned. 

“I’m serious, Petyr.” 

“Some lies are love,” he whispered. 

“Well, then. Love me less,” Sansa blurted. 

Petyr chuckled and shook his head. 

Sansa sighed with her whole body. 

“Petyr, you have to-”

She cut herself off when she moved and felt something hard between Petyr’s legs. 

Sansa blinked, mouth parted. 

“Are you… aroused?” she asked, exasperated. 

He looked not a trifle apologetic as he replied. 

“You’re stunning when you’re angry, and even more beautiful when you’re negotiating. Especially when that negotiation is like to end with you bent over my desk.” 

“Ugh!” Sansa cried, pressing the dagger harder, which only made Petyr smirk wider. 

“Do we have a deal?” he asked. 

“Prove to me you can tell me the truth,” Sansa said. 

“I’ve just told you quite a bit, haven’t I?” 

Sansa straightened her back. 

“Do you have spies at Winterfell?” she asked, hoping to catch him off-guard. 

Petyr met her eyes. 

“Yes.” 

Sansa let out a huff. 

“Get rid of them.” 

“How about I tell you who they are, and ask that they only report to you?” 

“How do I know they won’t give me false information and report to you behind my back?” 

“We are going to have to start somewhere, my dear,” he shrugged. “If we’re to be married, we have to begin to trust one another. Isn’t that what you told me before our wedding?” 

“And look where that got me,” she countered. 

But Petyr was right. Sansa was going to have to take tentative steps forward. That was the whole point of this deal. 

Licking her lips, she debated the offer. She didn’t want to spy on her brother, but she had to admit he wasn’t the most adept at ruling. If she used the spies _only_ for his own good, _only_ to benefit the North and not Petyr’s agenda… it would be okay, she reasoned. 

“Fine,” she said. 

Titling her head, her next question surprised even her, as she’d meant to save it for later. 

“Tell me… if you had to do it all over again… us, I mean. What would you do differently?” 

Sansa wanted to see if Petyr lied. Because she didn’t believe that if he went back to the past, he would chose to do it differently. He would still kidnap her, betray her. And she would know if he was lying, should he claim otherwise. 

“Nothing,” Petyr confessed. 

Sansa’s eyebrows rose. “Nothing?” she challenged, to be sure. 

“Nothing,” he repeated. 

Then, “Wait.” 

Sansa froze. 

“I’d have fucked you sooner, and more often.” 

Sansa tried to be stern, but she laughed. “You’re impossible.”

“Are you satisfied?” Petyr asked. 

“One more thing,” Sansa drawled, knuckles grazing the bulge beneath his breeches. “Three times a year we get to reverse roles in the bedchamber and you have to do whatever I say.”

Petyr blinked. “Once a year,” he countered. 

“Twice,” Sansa replied. 

“Done,” he said. 

Sansa grinned. “I would have accepted once.” 

Petyr smirked in return. “I would have given thrice.” 

She frowned. 

“Do we have a deal?” he asked again. 

Sansa scrunched her lips, considering, looking a lot like Petyr often did. Finally, she nodded. 

“Good. Now give me the dagger,” Petyr instructed, reaching slowly for her hands. 

Sansa reluctantly let go and Petyr tossed it onto the bedside table. Out of reach. 

“Such a good girl,” he said, stroking her hair and raising gooseflesh on Sansa’s arms. 

“I like it better when it’s my turn,” he told her. “I’ve shown you can trust me. Now show me you can obey. Lay down, raise your skirts, remove your small clothes and spread your legs.” 

Sansa complied, shimming out of her under garments and inching her legs apart. 

“Oh, you’re going to need to spread wider than that,” Petyr advised. “And knees up, my love.” 

Sansa groaned as she rolled her eyes, but she obeyed. 

Petyr made her stay in that position, just looking at her with his hungry gaze. Until she rocked her hips for wanting, until her sex glistened with wetness; until, when he finally brought a finger to her cunt, she whimpered at the long-awaited touch of his hands, pleading his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several notes:
> 
> I forgot to mention that Charlotte Cardin's cover of Wicked Games is the perfect song I listened to before writing their first wedding, so if you want a good P x S song, I recommend it https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I6HeqmNoAFE
> 
> I didn't include White Walkers in this story because they meant fuck-all in the show anyway, and I didn't want to overly complicate an already complicated fic. Also, I didn't include direwolves because I couldn't bear to kill or abandon Lady, and she didn't work well in King's Landing, so I just left them out. 
> 
> There's a moment at the end of the godswood sex that is partially inspired by the matchbook myth in the book/movie Like Water for Chocolate (or my interpretation of it.) The idea being that we are all born with a box of matches inside us, but it takes someone else to light them. Ultimately, however, you have to be careful not to light them all at once, or it will "illuminate the path we forgot at birth, and the soul will long to return to its divine origin." (Also, I'm not a the biggest fan of the simultaneous O in fiction - at least not every time- but Sansa was denied for weeks at this point, so I felt it was believable for her to get there rather quickly.)
> 
> On a much lighter note, the negotiation of how many times Petyr will submit in a year is a tribute to Pretty Woman, when Vivian and Edward are arguing her rate for the week.
> 
> Lastly, this has one chapter left! (And an epilogue.) I want to THANK YOU all for reading it. Especially, for sticking with me in the bumpy parts. I have to do the stuff I don't do so well, or I'll never improve (and gods, I hope I improve.) If you liked any parts of this story, I'd love to know which, so that I can do more of that in the future. There's a lot going on here and I'm never sure what people most enjoyed reading. So if you have the time and like giving feedback, please do let me know. And if not, THANK YOU so much for reading this. THANK YOU. I really, really hope this journey entertained you.


	28. The Old Gods and the New – Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies - I could not fit everything I had to wrap up in one chapter, so I split it, again. I don't want to veer into LOTR-multiple endings, but I don't want to miss steps, a la GoT Season 8. The next chapter, I promise this time, is the last (with an epilogue.) 
> 
> This is the sweet part of the two, the fluff. Or what passes for fluff in this fic. I hope it's not too mushy.
> 
> There's a lovely performance of one of GRRM's songs referenced here, in case anyone wants to listen.
> 
> My Featherbed  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SogjdgwYy9c

The fault lay entirely with the one Sansa believed to be Ros’s new guard – a man called Bronn. 

It seemed plausible, that Ros had been so traumatized by recent events that she’d hired someone quick with a blade to watch her door. When the lanky, dark-haired sellsword told Sansa that Ros was expecting her, she rushed inside her friend’s room without her usual courtesy, without so much as a knock. 

Sansa’s mouth dropped, seeing her friend abed, entangled with a mop of sandy hair belonging to – 

_Tyrion Lannister?_

“I – I’m sorry,” Sansa stammered, backing away. She cast her eyes down, to the side, _anywhere_ but at Ros, whom she could hear giggling softly. 

Sansa bumped right into Bronn, who now blocked her exit. 

“A Lannister always pays his debts, eh?” he asked the imp, with a wry expression. “Consider us squared up for Chataya’s.” 

Tyrion brought his hand to his forehead, as if fending off a headache. 

“I merely delayed your gratification when I interrupted – on important business, may I remind you. You’ve wrought consequences beyond the temporary suspension of pleasures.”

At the last part, he raised the hand in Sansa’s direction. 

“No, it’s alright-” Sansa began. 

Bronn cut her off, rocking back on his heels. “Consider it interest.” 

“I thought you didn’t understand the concept of loans,” Tyrion reminded, yanking his tunic over his shoulders with an angry tug. 

“I’m a fast learner,” Bronn shrugged. 

“My luck,” Tyrion replied, voice dripping sarcasm. He hopped out of the bed and bowed to Sansa, who held her hand half-over her eyes. 

“My apologies, my queen.” 

“No, it’s my fault, I – I mean, yes, of course. Accepted,” Sansa stammered, feeling like her mouth were full of sand. 

Tyrion shuffled quickly from the room, Bronn striding after. Sansa hurried to join them. 

“Wait!” Ros called, still giggling. 

She turned to see the other redhead tying her vibrant, floral robe as she came toward her. 

Ros threw her arms around Sansa and she hugged her back, a bit stiffly. 

“You have no idea how worried I was, until Petyr found you,” Ros said. 

“It was you I was worried about,” Sansa spoke in measured tones, then took a deep breath. “Petyr told me-” 

Ros smiled, waved her hand. “About the cove? Think he’s the first lout I’ve faced who tried to take something that didn’t belong to him? He wasn’t even the most memorable. And he didn’t get very far, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Sansa knit her brow, not sure how to process the knowledge that her friend had lived through… more than she could imagine. 

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “And for what Petyr did. You were only trying to help me. It was my fault.” 

Ros raised her chin, dismissing Sansa’s sympathy. “I’ve done well for myself. I know it, and I’m grateful. It’s not easy for girls like me. And I have you to thank for it. If you didn’t send me here to spy on the king in the first place, I’d have never come up in the world. I’d have never found an occupation I’m good at. I’d have never met Tyrion.” 

Sansa clasped her hands, looked down. “That’s, yes, well, I’m glad…”

At Ros’s tinkling laugh she looked back up. “I know how it must seem. It’s only been a few weeks, but I do believe my lord is… something special. He’s got talented fingers, and a nice tongue.”

“Tongue?” Sansa couldn’t help but repeat. 

“Oh, aye. Tongues are important. Some are too thin, like a dog. Some are too thick, like sausage,” Ros bent her head, as if conferring a secret. “Tyrion’s is delightful. And he knows how to use it.” 

Sansa wrinkled her nose at the coarse imagery. She never thought much about Petyr’s tongue before, other than to enjoy it. 

She took her first proper look at her friend. Ros’s words were lighthearted, but her face… glowed, and there was something distant in her eyes. Was it because of Tyrion’s tongue, or more? 

The idea that it might blossom into love worried at Sansa’s mind. She wanted a proper husband for her friend, and Tyrion, heir to Casterly Rock, would never be allowed to marry a common brothel-owner. Petyr would have to arrange a marriage to another great house. Even if the imp renounced his claims and continued only as Hand, he remained a Lannister. Too high a lord for anything other than a highborn lady. 

#

Sansa still fretted about her friend as Petyr ushered her into their room with his hand, possessively, on the small of her back. It was as if he aimed to ensure she wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Or, as if sliding back into an authoritative role as they crossed the threshold. 

Or, perhaps she missed the meaning entirely. But something felt different, more insistent about it.

Sometimes, Sansa could cut through Petyr’s masks, right to the yearning in his bones, to the secrets at the core of his being, and know what he wanted -- even before he did. 

Other times, it was as if she stumbled about a mist surrounding him, turning and tripping and unable to see her way out, until he reached his hand through the haze to guide her. 

Sansa entered their familiar bedroom, eyes widening. Along one wall, at least a dozen new gowns had been draped. Most, in Baelish colors of green, gray, and black, though there were some light blues, purples, and one flash of mauve. From a glance, many had extremely low cuts, like the gown Sansa wore the night of her first negotiation with Petyr. 

The one that ended with her going over his knees for the first time. 

She felt her husband behind her, his arms encircling her. 

“I hear it told the queen is ushering in a new style of dress for the ladies of court,” he whispered, close to her ear.

“Oh?” Sansa asked. “Interesting that it seems to be what the king best enjoys seeing her wear.” 

“Mmm,” he murmured. 

Turning her toward the terrace doors, he said, “Another wedding present, my love.” 

Sansa spied, in the corner by the curtains, the high harp she’d missed upon entering, and grinned widely. She hadn’t played since she’d come to King’s Landing, but Petyr remembered she used to enjoy the music, as a girl. 

“Petyr, this is too much,” she protested. “And I haven’t gotten you anything.” 

It wasn’t _entirely_ true. Sansa had tasked Jon with helping her recraft the pommel of a rare Valyrian sword she planned on gifting Petyr, once complete. It would be somewhat ornamental, Petyr was no fighter. But every king should have a Valyrian sword for his House, and since Petyr’s great-grandfather was a Braavosi sellsword, Sansa figured skill with the blade might run in the family. If not, it ran in hers. 

That was the second part of the gift, it’s true nature. A Baelish sword, to pass down to their sons. _Or daughters, should they turn out like Arya,_ Sansa thought, with some annoyance. It had come from a family blade Samwell had gifted her, and was in need of enhancement on its handle anyway. A mockingbird would sit nicely. 

“All selfish gifts, I must confess,” Petyr protested, releasing her. 

“Play for me,” he said, just firm enough to dance between a question and a command. 

Sansa nodded. That she could do, at least. 

Petyr sat on the bed and Sansa inspected the jewel-encrusted harp. 

“Take off your small clothes,” he said. That one was an order, for certain. 

Sansa looked up through her lashes, the hint of a smile at her mouth. Slowly, she reached beneath her dress stepped out of the garments. 

“Raise your gown as you sit,” he instructed. 

Sansa chewed her lip as she reached down and bunched the gown around her hips, revealing her red curls to Petyr. Sitting and sliding the instrument between her legs left nothing to the imagination. 

“A harp can be as dangerous as a sword, in the right hands,” he said, not bothering to conceal his unwavering gaze from her sex. “Should you play for the court, I’d wager we could sway any stubborn lord or lady to whatever endeavor we so choose.” 

“I doubt anyone would be listening, should I play for an audience in this manner.” 

“I rather think it enhances the performance.” 

Of course he did. 

She tested a few strings, wishing she had more time to practice. She could hardly concentrate, exposed, with his eyes locked on her cunt, how could _he?_

With that thought, the idea came to her, and, clearing her throat, she began the bawdy tavern song she’d heard so often before their wedding. It didn’t really play well on the harp, but it would serve to warm up her fingers, and, she hoped, surprise Petyr. 

There once was a king of wind and ash  
And a queen of fire and snow  
He stole her from her Northern keep  
And would not let her go  
With golden hands and rays of sun  
Beside the throne, he crowned her  
With iron staff and beams of moon  
To his bed, he bound her

Sansa stopped there, thinking it wicked enough, but with a sinister grin, Petyr whispered the next verse. 

Sansa threw back her head and laughed at the song that used to make her want to empty the contents of her stomach. It painted Petyr in a far worse light than she, and the smallfolk would sing their drinking songs no matter how well they ruled. 

Flexing her fingers, she began My Featherbed, as it reminded her of their tryst in the godswood -- though she much preferred a featherbed to a bed a leaves, in the long run. Arya could sleep in the dirt, Sansa liked her luxuries. But something about the idea of being a forest lass - Petyr her forest love – spoke to her. Stripped of their finery, she’d still love him fiercely. There felt something fated, something older than the trees about it. 

Closing her eyes, Sansa launched into her last song.

 _“High in the halls, of the kings who are gone  
Jenny would dance with her ghosts…”_

When she finished, she opened her eyes, and saw Petyr stared at her face with something like reverence. 

“You play beautifully, my love. No lord would fail to consent to any scheme while you sang nearby.” 

She blushed more from the compliment then she had her exposure. 

“Do you know your mother played at being Jenny of Oldstones once, when we were children, and I, the Prince of Dragonflies?” he asked. 

Sansa’s grin faltered. That Petyr loved her mother, even in a childish way, always felt a little strange. But… had he not, it would have never put him on the path to her. 

“I thought of you as my Prince of Dragonflies whenever we danced together, before the wedding.” 

“It’s no longer a just comparison.” 

“No?” Sansa teased. “You wouldn’t give up your crown for me, as Prince Duncan had for Jenny?” 

“No. I’d kill whoever said you couldn’t be my queen.” It was Littlefinger who replied, the severity startling Sansa. 

She now stared at Petyr with something like reverence. 

“Does that upset you?” he asked, blinking slowly. 

“It… upsets me that it doesn’t,” Sansa said, in a tentative voice. If their love was older than the trees, as she imagined, it felt beyond the laws of men, subject to rules Sansa didn’t fully understand, in their grayness. 

“I’d have burnt the Vale to the ground, had anything further happened,” Petyr added, off-handedly. 

“I know,” Sansa replied, titling her head. “You’re still considering it. Part of you wants to.” 

Petyr shrugged. They held one another’s gaze for a long moment, almost as if in challenge. 

He spoke first. 

“It’s a funny thing, wanting. I used to want to be king, no matter if it meant being king of the ashes. Once I sat the throne, I wanted to be celebrated for having a prosperous reign. When that was within my grasp, I wanted to launch a dynasty that would last a thousand years. The moment we get what we want, we want something else.” 

Sansa listened, and, following the line of thought, anxiously ran her fingers along her the harp’s edge. 

“And me?” she asked, smiling to cover her apprehension. “Now that you have me, what is left to desire?” 

“I can never attain what I want with you,” Petyr said, working his jaw and seeming almost confounded by the idea. 

Sansa frowned. 

“I want all of it. Your youth, your children, your years of white and silver. _Your life._ And it will take mine own lifetime to achieve.” 

Sansa felt a pang, a longing in her heart, to meet his desires, to give him all that he sought. 

“I am a greedy man, Sansa. When it’s done, whatever comes after this, I want that too.” 

“Are you saying you believe in gods and ghosts and all of that?” she teased. 

“I’m saying that I won’t stop wanting you in death, I believe. That tavern ballad had the right of it, I won’t let you go, sweetling. Even then.” 

Sansa’s lip quivered, a lump rose in her throat. She didn’t know where to look or what to do with her hands. How was it that Petyr could make her nervous with bare confessions of love, when they’d done all sorts of shameful things, truly naked? 

“I- I don’t want you to let me go,” she whispered, fidgeting. “I don’t want to go. Ever again.” 

Petyr studied her quietly and she wondered if she’d said something wrong. 

“The pursuit of you, my love, can be like navigating quicksand. You’re never sure if the ground will give beneath your feet.” 

“I could say the same about you,” Sansa retorted, shifting her weight. 

“No,” Petyr shook his head. “You’ve always known where you stand with me. You just weren’t sure if you wanted to be there.” 

She inhaled deeply, letting her eyelids flutter shut. He was right. Deep down, she knew. If she saw past their fighting, their posturing, Petyr had never truly given her cause to doubt his feelings, not when they came to her. She just didn’t know if she could accept what came with it. 

_Oh, Petyr,_ she thought. All this time, he had loved her, and all this time, he never knew if he could hold onto her. 

“Give me your dagger,” Sansa said, forming a plan. She rose, letting her skirts fall, and strode to Petyr. 

He raised his eyebrows. “Are we playing at thrusting it between my legs again?” he asked, handing it over. 

“No, but I will need a bit of your tunic.” 

“It’s my favorite,” Petyr warned, as she brought the dagger to his hem. 

“That’s why it’s perfect,” Sansa said. “Don’t worry, I’ll sew it back up and no one will ever notice.” 

Carefully, she used the tip of the catspaw to pick out the stitching on the underside of the seam, where the extra material folded over. Then she cut away a portion of the cloth. 

Moving to the table, Sansa laid out the swath and cut it into two smaller strips. Petyr watched her with patient curiosity. 

Taking one of the strips, Sansa bound a tiny section of her hair on one side, near her crown. She braided down to the end, then tied it off with the other strip. When she finished, she brought the catspaw to the top, and cut the plait from her head. 

“I have a gift for you,” she told Petyr. “But it’s not ready yet. In the meantime…” she trailed off, suddenly nervous. Many lovers gave a lock of hair to one another, but Petyr hadn’t asked, and she felt foolish or vain. 

“I want you to have a piece of me. I’ll sew you a little pouch, so you can keep with you when we’re apart. It’s… bound by your tunic.” 

She blushed to her ears, looked at her feet. 

“As I am bound by you,” she finished. 

Sansa looked up, worried that Petyr would think it silly, worried she’d see forced, false appreciation on his face. 

She swallowed, her heart thumped. 

_No, not silly at all._

He seemed ready to devour her, green-gray eyes flashing, burning. 

“I’ll keep it with me always,” he rasped, taking it from her hands and secreting it within his tunic. 

“Come here,” he ordered, but did not wait for her to comply, yanking Sansa onto his lap. 

Without hesitation, Petyr pulled her gown from her shoulders, exposing her breasts. He took one nipple in his mouth and sucked hungrily, making the peak stiffen, before bringing his hot mouth to lick the other. Sansa thread her fingers through his rich hair, arching into him, offering more. 

Petyr lifted and laid Sansa on the bed but didn’t cease his attentions. He cupped her breasts, rolling the nipples between his thumb and forefinger and pinching them. Softly at first, then increasing the pressure until he’d pinch so hard she started to panic, wondering if he’d hurt her. But he always stopped right before it caused too much pain. Then he’d quickly bring his mouth to her tips again, soothing with his tongue. 

Just when Sansa thought he’d remain gentle, he’d take the nipple between his teeth and repeat the torturous process his fingers wrought, biting until she gasped, then cupping the fullness of her breasts in his hands, kneading and soothing. 

Sansa melted beneath him. A look turned her knees to jelly, a caress turned her body to a puddle on the bed. 

She could even sense the wetness grow, between her legs. 

_Touch me, Petyr, take me._

Always the chorus of begging in her mind. 

But Petyr had given her so much right now, she wanted to give back, to _please him._

Sansa clutched his forearms and nudged Petyr up and away. He raised an eyebrow, but she turned his body, guiding him onto the bed beside her, and was gratified to see he relaxed, allowing her to lead. 

Sitting up, Sansa untied Petyr’s laces and pushed down his breeches, freeing his erection. 

She began with a featherlight caress and Petyr groaned, titling his head back onto the pillow. 

Sansa cradled his cock with her hand, rubbing slowly. Then she brought her head down and kissed the swollen tip, causing Petyr’s breath to hitch. 

She paused, and Petyr felt it. He looked up. 

Sansa licked her lips. “I want to fuck you,” she whispered. 

“By all means,” Petyr said. 

“No, I mean… _I_ want to fuck _you._ And I don’t… know if I’m going to do it right.” 

Sansa felt as if she were five-and-ten again. But she hadn’t been on top before, like the illustrations in the naughty books Petyr had given her long ago. Did ladies even do that, or just whores? She was embarrassed by how much she still did not know. 

“Will you help me? Let me know if I’m doing it right or… guide me?”

Petyr licked his lips. “I assure you, it will be my pleasure.” 

Flashing an anxious grin, Sansa straddled Petyr and lowered herself onto his erection, pleased as she watched his face transform, slacken with lust. 

Petyr brought his hands to her hips, but she began rocking her pelvis slowly, moving in a way that felt good to her, and he withdrew. 

“I think,” he rasped, stuttering as she bobbed, “I think you know what you’re doing.” 

Petyr’s chest rose and fell as he let out low, breathy moans. Sansa could _see,_ could _hear_ his enjoyment, to her delight. 

Watching him lose control under her, the she-wolf in her took over, the girl kissed-by-fire.

 _Oh, this was going to be fun._

“Are you saying I’m good at fucking, Lord Baelish?” she asked, soft at first, but growing in confidence, teasing Petyr as he so often loved to taunt her with words. 

_Bolder,_ she told herself. 

“That I know just how to fuck my lord? I’m not a very good rider, but perhaps I know how to ride my lord’s cock, to his pleasure.” Sansa pushed her hips harder. “Nay, perhaps I just needed a king between my legs.” 

Petyr clenched his teeth, hissed. “Sansa, stop-” 

But she only laughed and bucked faster, impaling herself on his stiffness, hitting that spot she loved so, deep within. She took as much pleasure from his cock as she did from watching his expressions. 

“Why?” she teased, arching as she rutted. She had begun to pant, her voice, thick with lust. “Does it not feel good, dipping into my sweet… wet… cunt?”

He swore under his breath. 

_Bolder,_ she commanded again. 

Smirking and bending low for a moment, Sansa let out a husky sigh, near his ear. 

_“Petyr,”_ she moaned. “Does it not thrill you that your lady wife is as filthy as a whore in one of your brothels? That she fucks you like you paid her? You paid me so well, my lord, I must fuck you as well in return.”

“Sansa, _stop-”_ he protested again, but it was too late. 

She felt him peak, and even though she didn’t, Sansa was more than satisfied to witness the ecstasy pass over Petyr’s face. His eyes locked on hers, his mouth parted, groaning. Sansa relished the victory, squeezing her muscles to enhance his pleasure. 

When his body finally stilled, she clucked her tongue. 

“I suppose I am an adequate whore, seeing as how you couldn’t last very long, although I’m not sure you got your money’s worth. Please make haste in re-tying your breeches, I have other customers I must attend…” 

“Little. Minx,” Petyr gritted through clenched teeth, and firm hands grabbed her waist and lifted her up. He threw her back on the bed, hands pushing her legs apart and wrapping around her thighs to keep them spread. 

When he ducked his head down, she heard Petyr inhale deeply. 

“You smell divine,” he said, and Sansa covered her face, beet red. Her legs reflexively tried to close, but Petyr tightened his grip. He enjoyed her scent, but he did it on purpose, she knew. The fastest way to make her squirm. 

Petyr nipped at her pale thighs, and she jumped as far as she could against his hold. Without warning, he brought his thumb to her clit, rubbing circles, before replacing his hand with his mouth, kissing and sucking her tender nub. 

“Intoxicating,” he whispered, breathing deeply once more. He ran his fingers up and down her slit, up and down, until her legs shook. 

“Are you my little whore, Sansa? Tell me, do you wet yourself this much for all your customers?” 

She moaned in reply and he moved lower, burying his tongue inside her. 

#

“So, my queen enjoys games, does she?” Petyr asked. He held her – all of her - having swept her up into the space between his legs as he sat, propped against the headboard. His arms encompassed both Sansa’s upper body and legs, which were bent at the knees, so that she curled into a ball against his torso. 

“I just played one, didn’t I?”

“That’s not an answer.” 

“I don’t think we’d have made it very far if I didn’t,” Sansa pointed out. “Seeing as how you so enjoy them.” 

“And how much further would you be willing to go?” Petyr asked darkly, dark enough for Sansa to hear the lure to wicked places yet unexplored. _What more could he seek?_ Her mind flashed to the erotic books he’d given her, trying to recall various acts of depravity. 

“Ah – as far as you take me,” Sansa said, with some hesitation. “I did make a deal to obey, didn’t I?” 

Petyr made a noise of disbelief in the back of his throat. 

“Is that so? Can you guess what I’d like to do to you? You’ve married a former brothel keep, as you so enjoy reminding me.” 

“You and I both know there’s nothing ‘former’ about it,” Sansa replied, dryly. 

Petyr gave a low chuckle but did not comment. “What would you say if I were to tell you to dress in a blue gown, like the one you had back in Winterfell, when we met? And braid your hair as you had, in two plaits?” 

_Oh._

That game. 

She ran her fingernails across his chest as she blushed. 

“Would I be waiting for you to chastise me, your naughty little girl? Is that right…” she swallowed, “…father?” 

“Perhaps,” he replied, but she heard his smile as he spoke. 

“And if I wish to dress you in a costume and have you crawl around the room, by collar, by lead, what would you say?” 

Sansa’s pulse began to quicken. What _would_ she say? 

“I-” she stammered, gulping again. “I suppose I would _try_ it. I did swear to do whatever you liked. If you wanted to do something, then that is the deal…” Sansa pursed her lips, hearing how thin her excuses sounded, how clear it was that the idea aroused her. 

Petyr allowed her to save face when he replied, “Oh, sweetling, that is the deal. And it’s only the beginning. There are things I have in mind you couldn’t imagine. But we’ll start with your punishment over my desk tomorrow evening.”

Sansa felt Petyr’s hands caressing her hair. 

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Since it’s your first time, I’ll wear my belt all day… to help you see what’s in store.” 

_Doubtful. Liar._

“Honesty is part of the deal, Petyr. Try again.” 

He squeezed her rear, hard, causing Sansa to give a little squeal and clutch his wrist. 

“Move your hand, Sansa. Now.” 

Sansa let go. 

Petyr released as well, his elegant hand gently patting her bottom instead. A tease, a warning, a sign of ownership. 

“Look at me.” 

_That voice._ The low command. 

Sansa turned her head and forced her gaze to meet his. 

“I’ll wear my belt all day so that I can watch you squirm whenever you look upon it.”

His words sent butterflies flitting about her stomach.

“You’re cruel. Truly.” 

He stroked her cheek. Bit out the words with the satisfaction of that demon-lord she knew him to be. 

“You love it. Truly.” 

His green-grey eyes seemed cut through her skin, pierce her heart. 

He _saw_ her. 

He always had. 

Even as a girl, when he came to her. When her mother and father praised her for her needlework, her courtesies. Petyr praised her quick mind, her spirit of survival. When she was being groomed to be a lady, nothing more than a doting wife, Petyr was the only one who recognized she could be so much more, given the opportunity. 

He recognized himself in her. 

Even when she was but a young girl. 

“You were right,” Sansa said. “The night I left. You told me I enjoyed the revenge you provided. I did want to prove to the everyone that I am capable of ruling well. That I had the best intentions for the North, could do the most good here in King’s Landing. The lords who disputed my command when I became The Lady of Winterfell-”

Sansa stopped, blinking slowly, mouth agape. 

For a long moment she was silent. 

“You.”

She brought her hand to her chest. 

Oh gods. 

“You knew they didn’t support me, not at first. Not until I proved myself. For so long we’d been enemies, I didn’t see…” Sansa’s eyes widened. 

“You helped me become the Lady of Winterfell, didn’t you? You set up ploys, not just to antagonize me, that came later." _When I was ready,_ she thought. "But at first, schemes I might win, to sway the other lords?”

Petyr’s eyes danced. 

“Perhaps one or two. When you were young." He spoke low, out of the side of his mouth. "I swear to you, the rest, The Queen in the North, was entirely of your own merit.”


	29. The Old Gods and the New - Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning #1 - There are no safe words in Westeros. It's Petyr-loving-Baelish. _King_ Petyr. Things get severe. This isn't meant to be an example of how s&m works in relationships in the real world.
> 
> Warning #2 - I wanted to follow their story through to full completion in the epilogue. I believe in happy endings, but... there is a bit of sadness at the very end, because all things must end. (Some, like me, might find that more upsetting than a severe spanking - ha!) I don't like or want any sadness! But I couldn't be true to the story without it. I don't know why, that's just how it came to me.
> 
> Last note - I took a bit of liberty with their age difference.

The emerald collar Petyr gifted Sansa hung from her neck. She wore only her white shift. No gown. No smallclothes. Hair, unbound, a cascade of red.

The air felt cool as it drifted up between her legs.

Petyr had scraped all her hair from the region as soon as they’d awoken that morning.

Sansa had stared at the ceiling, doing her best not to wiggle one centimeter, as the blade worked its way around her most sensitive area.

When he had finished, rubbing Sansa clean, she felt _odd._ Bare. More naked than naked.

And suspiciously childish.

“Must I remain this way?” she asked, with both trepidation and impatience.

“Only when you’ve been very naughty,” Petyr had replied, cupping her now highly sensitive mound and giving it a gentle squeeze.

At present, Sansa sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing clammy palms against the sheets, trying to dry them. Her toes tapped, wondering when Petyr would arrive.

Worrying how much it would hurt.

She forced her posture ramrod-straight, chin high. Better to meet whatever came next, with pride. However long it lasted.

Petyr had _purposefully_ planned a long and boring meeting that afternoon. _Purposefully_ stood often, his waist eye-level with Sansa. His ringed hands touched his belt, almost stroking it.

Sansa hadn’t even realized her eyes had glazed over until Petyr asked her opinion, startling her. Turning heads in her direction. She found her mouth had run dry and she needed to swallow before she got any words out.

The king looked at his wife, expectantly, face bearing no trace of the game-playing she absolutely knew him to be doing.

Sansa cleared her throat.

“I rely on your experience in matters such as these,” she had replied, with a forced smile, hoping her answer matched the question.

_Twice._

She could tell by the uncomfortable shifting and furrowed brows it did not, on either occasion.

Her face grew hot, feeling as if her thoughts were written plain upon it for all the small council to see.

Petyr cocked his head at her, as if _oh so confused_ by the queen’s distraction.  

Sansa clenched her jaw in return, daydreaming about slapping him across the face hard enough to knock off his crown.

Only then, in response to whatever expression she wore indulging in that fantasy, did Petyr finally cock his one-sided smirk at her.

She had gone to bed with a doting husband and awoken to a stern disciplinarian. It was like being married to two different men. Three, perhaps. King Petyr, when he was sweet. Littlefinger, the man of deceptions. And Lord Baelish, the name he often liked her to use when tangled in the sheets.  

When Petyr had whispered the lesson she’d learn that evening with shameful detail, Sansa was flushed and wet and terrified all at once.

No matter how she protested or stroked Petyr or wiggled up against him, he would _not_ be swayed. The more she tried, the more she came up against that steel wall, that iron will she knew so well.

Sansa finally grew so anxious, she threatened not to submit at all, to which Petyr replied, “Please, sweetling. Defy me. I would love to tie you down and have cause to spank you harder.”

At that, she closed her mouth.

He was entirely unaffected by her protests, her attempts at seduction.

Yet, Sansa thought, chewing her lip… the control he exuded over himself, over her, brought a strange tingle to her chest, making her feel safe _and_ vulnerable to danger at the same time.

Petyr was her kidnapper and rescuer. Her protector and punisher.

#

Sansa’s stomach, a tangle of knots, dropped to her feet when the door opened. Her heart leapt in the other direction, lodging in her throat. Gooseflesh rose all over her skin. She gulped, thickly.

The ash-and-black king in his silver crown, backlit by the doorway, cast a long shadow across the stone floor.

_Gods, why did Petyr have to be so handsome?_

That must be the reason she clenched her legs, excited. He was too gallant not to… to… confuse her emotions like this.

Sansa ducked her chin, pride forgotten in a mess of nerves. She caught sight of her nipples, harder than ever, poking out like godsdamn beacons through her shift. Announcing her excitement. She hoped, vainly, somehow Petyr wouldn’t notice.

Her heart hammered as he approached, her pulse raced. Any faster and she’d faint.

“You know why you’re being punished?” Petyr asked.

Sansa nodded, still looking down.

 _Gods, why did he have to say words like that?_ It made her cheeks warm.  

“Take off your shift, Lady Sansa,” Petyr said.

_Her old name?_

Sansa swallowed again. Licked her lips.

With trembling hands, she stood and lifted the gown up and over her head. Reflexively, she covered her breasts. Not that Petyr hadn’t seen them a hundred times, but this time felt different.

“Hands behind your head,” he ordered. “Legs apart.”

Slowly, Sansa obeyed, seeing how the gesture pushed her breasts out further, and parted and exposed her sex. A display, an offering, a posture immediately asserting who was in control.

Her face burned.

Intentionally inflicted embarrassment to humble her.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. She heard the clink of metal, the woosh of leather against cloth. She opened them.

Petyr’s belt hovered beneath her chin.

“Kiss it,” he commanded. His eyes were cold, deadlier than she’d seen them before. It frightened her. Had he meant to? He hadn’t wanted to wait this long to punish her, perhaps he let his mind drift back, focus on what had brought them to this juncture – all the rage he’d felt when he woke to find her gone.

Bending her head, Sansa laid a quick, soft kiss on the leather.

To her surprise, Petyr tossed it onto the sheets, behind her.

For a moment, she thought he changed his mind, and she wouldn’t be belted after all.

But then took a seat on the bed.

“Come here,” he said.

When Sansa was slow to shuffle to his side, he pulled her over his lap.

“It’s best if I spank you with my hands first.”

With one quick adjustment to reposition her hips, he began.

Petyr hadn’t punished her since before their wedding; she’d forgotten how much it stung, how mortifying an ordeal to be prostrate over your husband’s knees like a child.

He spanked fast, building a heat in her backside and down her thighs. Every time he smacked the area between her rear and her legs hurt worse than any other, and Sansa yelped.

Especially when he, rather cruelly, spanked the same spot two or even three times in a row.

Sansa began to whimper and moan, drumming her toes against the floor. It didn’t hurt as much as the time he’d spanked her with the hairbrush, not at first, but it was longer, and seemed building up to it.

When her eyes moistened and she fought to catch her breath, she gave in to begging.

“Petyr, please. No more,” she whispered.

“Sansa,” he scolded. “We haven’t even gotten started yet.”

She groaned. Her legs kicked, her hand clasped Petyr’s ankle. He kept spanking while she wiggled back-and-forth, trying to escape the sting.

 _Smack, smack, smack._ All over her unprotected bottom.

After another minute of rapid blows, something strange happened. Sansa started to feel _lighter,_ almost weightless. Her legs still kicked, but her bottom wanted to arch up to meet each slap. It should have hurt _more,_ as he continued, but she’d reached a point where it somehow hurt _less._ Each time Petyr’s hand connected with her bottom, it sent a signal to her cunt, wetting it.

 _Smack._ Right on the fullness of her left cheek… _and did that hurt or feel good?_

The more he spanked her… the more she wanted to be fucked.

Time muted, the room faded. Sansa lost sense of her words. She whimpered, she moaned, she drifted further up, into the air, gasping.

When Petyr stopped, her backside was on fire and yet she was almost sorry.

She was certainly sorry she’d ran away. And she’d be even sorrier soon, she knew.

Petyr helped her stand.

Her knees buckled, and he caught her, steadying her. Her cunt dripped, her head lolled like she’d drunk too much wine. The room seemed far away. She saw only Petyr, heard only his gravelly voice.  

“Bend over the desk,” he said.

With the raging heat in her backside, Sansa obeyed. It would be best to do as he commanded, quickly, and get it over with. She reached out and held onto the far edge, presenting herself, trying not to think about how she looked.

She knew she’d never glance at his workspace again without blushing.

She knew Petyr would be good to his word, and she’d spend many evenings in the future in the same position. The thought made something warm unfurl low in her gut. She inhaled the scent of parchment from his books, leather from his boxes. Distinctly Petyr.

“Stunning,” he appraised, and that one word made Sansa arch, eager to please him.

Maybe if she pleased him enough, he’d decide not to belt her and just _touch_ her. Gods, she needed him to touch her. Her cunt throbbed, swollen, ready.

“Did I say I detested your Tully words?” Petyr asked. It was impossible to mistake his sardonic tone. Short, even fingernails traced one long line down her spine and Sansa shivered. “I’ve changed my mind.”

 _“Family_. It comes first, does it not? Who is your family now, to which house, to _whom_ do you belong, Sansa?”

The lightest touch of his fingertips grazed her backside and she sighed.

_Did he want an answer?_

“To you, Lord - _King_ Petyr Baelish,” she replied, hoping it was right, to speak. Unsure which name he preferred.

“Duty,” he continued, and he palmed the right cheek of her ass, making Sansa pant at the cool relief. “Will you serve your lord, my love? Perform your duty to your husband, your king?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa swore, rocking against the edge of the desk in a fruitless attempt to find pressure.

“And honor, Sansa. Will you honor my orders -- with pleasure, without hesitation? Every last one of them, as I command in bed?”

She squeezed the muscles at her core, aching, feeling so empty. Needing Petyr to fill her.

“Yes,” Sansa licked her lips, dry, nearly chapping. “I will.”

 _Only Littlefinger could take the revered Tully words and pervert them to serve his own interests,_ Sansa thought. They’d never sound the same again.           

The first lick of the belt hit Sansa like fire, right in the middle of her bottom. She yelped, jumping upright, hands flying behind her to rub out the sting.

She couldn’t take it, she _couldn’t._

Petyr blinked slowly. Patiently.

“We’ll repeat that stroke, and you’ve earned an additional one for moving out of position. Bend back over, my love.”  

Sansa couldn’t help it, her brain scrambled for a way out, looking for escape, thinking up protests. Her wild eyes gave her away, just like they had before their bedding ceremony when she sought an exit.

But her rational brain knew any attempt at escape or protest would only make it worse. She let out a defeated moan and reluctantly lowered her torso back over the desk.

“Don’t move, or we’ll do each stroke again.” A clipped tone. Impersonal.

One small nod from Sansa, the cold desk rubbing against her cheek. She tensed, gripping the edge with white knuckles.

Petyr delivered as promised, spanking her in exactly the same spot as before, only this time is hurt twice as much. She squealed as tears pricked her eyes.

“Additional strokes, for moving, are given on the thighs,” Petyr said, indifferent. He gave her a second to process the penalty before Sansa felt the wicked kiss of the belt across both of her tender thighs, its tip smacking especially hard as it curved around her right.  

Sansa groaned, wiggling her hips in a vain attempt to dilute the sting. But she forced her hands to hold tight around the desk.  

Petyr drew back and spanked her again, and _again._ Criss-crossing strokes across the curves of her rear, marking the pale skin with lines of red.

 _“Please, please, no more,”_ Sansa begged. Not that she thought it would sway him – it didn’t - but she couldn’t stop the words from coming out of her mouth.

Like Petyr’s hands, the worst strokes hit the lower curve of her bottom, that sensitive flesh where her cheek met thigh.

He didn’t swing any less hard when he hit there either. Petyr was _merciless._ Unyielding to her pleas.

Twice Sansa jumped, breasts rising from the flat of the desk, but she caught herself before her back straightened. As bad as a stroke was to that region, she did not want an immediate repeat.

It didn’t matter. Sometimes Petyr gave her an identical stripe, one on top of the other. Testing her. Making her shout out her cries.

Sansa kicked her legs and squirmed and begged as the spanking continued. But she did not _dare_ lift herself from Petyr’s desk, did not _dare_ move her hands to protect her backside again.

She hated to admit it, but she was terrified of what he would do to her if she didn’t comply.

She hated to admit it, but the power Petyr possessed made her slick between her legs.

“Are you ever going to lie to me again, Lady Sansa?”

The question came low, steady, slow. But he’d been so quiet, it startled Sansa.

“No, my lord, no!”

Her own reply came frantic, tumbling, desperate.

She received another stroke anyway.

“Are you ever going to leave the castle without my permission?”

“Never!” she swore.

“Do you deserve to be punished for what you did?”

A rasp. Something appraising about his tone.

Sansa nodded, wordlessly, then forced herself to reply.

“Yes,” she said, weakly.

She whimpered and squirmed at another lick of the leather against her rear.

“How do you deserve to be punished?”

“W- with your belt, my lord.”

“Do you think this is enough to make you behave?”

_Was that a trick question?_

“It’s not.. it’s not my choice,” Sansa replied. “You determine when I’ve been punished enough.”

She felt Petyr suddenly, close to her ear, his hands in her hair.

“You haven’t,” he whispered.

Sansa didn’t know whether to moan or cry.

Petyr straightened and snapped his belt again.

The only thing it seemed Sansa could do was sob, and so she did, finally letting the tears spill.  

She _had_ been so awful to Petyr. She _deserved_ this spanking.

Her legs still kicked, but she didn’t try to avoid the blows any longer. Despite her tears, Petyr continued to wield his belt… and the spanking seemed to change, as it had over his knees.

Each smack of the belt sent a signal to her cunt, wetting it. _Drenching_ it.

Somewhere in Sansa’s mind she knew that as much as it hurt, it would have been unbearable had Petyr begun like this. But he’d worked in seamless stages to lead her down – up? – into a _place,_ some _place_ different.

The room around them faded entirely. There existed nothing but Petyr’s commands, his belt. The pain transmuted from what it would have been, had he begun cold. It transformed in her mind to something cathartic, something she _sought._

 _Smack_ – he’d switched sides, and the belt curled around her left cheek now.

Sansa felt as if she floated between a state of wakefulness and dreaming. Both closer to and further from Petyr than ever, like they were two halves locked in a circle, but with a wall between them. Dancing in steps only they knew. He led her, pliable, a wisp of gliding limbs that followed his pull.

 _Smack –_ he hit high on her bottom now, a previously unmarked area.

It was the twisted language only they spoke. Every lash he gave reinforced that he loved her. Every stroke she took proved she loved him in return.

 _Smack –_ harder than the rest, back on her right side.

Sansa was light as air, a feather - and Petyr the wind, blowing her about as he chose.

Or perhaps she was within the mockingbird’s clutches, flying wherever he carried her, weightless, soaring through the air.           

She hadn’t realized he’d stopped.

Petyr pressed himself up behind her, his tunic chaffing her sore bottom and legs, but Sansa only welcomed the pain. He folded himself over her, leaning down to growl in her ear.

“Spread your legs, sweetling.”

“I… what?” Sansa breathed, voice barely a whisper. She wasn’t being defiant. There was nothing Petyr could instruct of her in that moment that she wouldn’t obey. But her head swam, it was difficult to make out his orders.

She felt the air move, Petyr raised himself back up.

“Spread your legs wide and keep them open. The belt has to get where it can do the most good.”

Sansa moaned. His voice – detached, cold even. Why did she love that?

Her arousal dripped down her thighs, she wondered how visible it would be as she opened her legs for Petyr.

He ran his hand over her tender backside and felt him staring. Admiring his efforts?

Then Sansa heard him move to her side and draw back his arm. She should have known what was coming -- did she truly believe he sought only her inner thighs? And yet, she’d been so light-headed, so deep in a state of arousal, she didn’t follow through to the obvious conclusion.

When the belt hit her, vertically, right between her legs, she shrieked. It had gone straight down the cleft between her cheeks, the insidious tip flicking down to smack her tender, swollen cunt.

And still, she _dared not move_.

Eyes wide, she panted. Her mind begged him to stop. Begged him to do it again.

“P- p- p-” she stammered. What did she want to say? Petyr? Please? Stop? Don’t stop?  

It didn’t matter. He would punish her until he was satisfied, nothing she said would change that.

He hit her again, a little to the left, and this time it did strike tender flesh of her inner thigh and she groaned while tears hit the desk. Sansa couldn’t understand it, but releasing them felt _good,_ not bad.

A third strike hit on the opposite side, marking the inside of her right cheek, down to the thigh. Her hands flew off the desk, but she caught herself before they reached around.

And then, the worst hit of all. Petyr struck her again, harder this time. Right down the center of parted bottom, marking the crease, the vulnerable flesh in between and right up to the lips of her cunt, leather biting into her unprotected folds with malice.

Sansa didn’t realize she’d jumped up again until it was too late.

One look from Petyr and she was begging.

“No, Petyr, _please,_ I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

He didn’t need to say anything. His eyes said it all.

Sansa whimpered and, grimacing, she covered her face. She flung herself back over the desk, hoping obedience would gain her some measure of mercy.

Without being told, she spread her legs wide.

“We’ll repeat that stroke, sweetling,” Petyr reminded her.

She heard something behind his matter-of-fact tone. He was pleased to have cause to belt her again, so intimately.

Sansa gulped and steeled herself.

The belt came like fire between her legs and she yelled, breaking down into fresh tears. Perhaps in kindness, Petyr didn’t make her wait, the additional stroke cut across her thighs a second later, though no less lightly. In fact, being the final stroke, he made it the hardest, and she gave a small scream again before sobbing.

Sansa knew better than to move until he told her to. She remained bent over the desk, crying into the wood.

Physically, she hurt. Emotionally… something weighty had been released. She felt lighter than ever, floating up, up, the bird on the wind.

The pain in her backside only matched the ache in her sex.

In place of whatever burden she’d jettisoned, Sansa burned with a white-hot, shrieking need for Petyr to fuck her. It made her feel wild, like an animal. She fantasized about dropping to all fours so he could take her, she needed him to take her _now._

She felt Petyr’s hands halfway down her legs. Curiously, he was kneeling. His finger stroked the back of her knees, the sides.

“Sansa.”

Hearing him say her name in that husky whisper made her heart pound.  

“You’re wet down to your knees.”

She closed her eyes against his words. But she knew it was true. She could feel it. Wetter than she’d ever been. Dripping down her thighs, to the hollow of her knees.

Sansa heard Petyr undressing behind her and the muscles in her sex seized in anticipation.

“I can’t fuck you, my love. This is punishment. Not a reward.”

Confused, dazed, Sansa felt the tip of Petyr’s cock rub her folds and she writhed, desperate for friction. He was thicker and harder than he’d ever been.

“I can’t fuck you… where you want me to,” Petyr amended, withdrawing.  

Sansa whined at both the news and the loss of pressure. Petyr lined himself up with her rear.

Her punishment wasn’t over yet.

Petyr would give her not what she wanted, but what she needed.

What _he_ decided she needed.

Sansa gasped at the painful intrusion of the tip of his cock inside her rear. Petyr gave her a moment to adjust. The sensation sent her right back to their wedding night.

Only this time, Sansa would submit to any demand he made, with pleasure.

He slid further inside. Fucking her as _discipline._ Ensuring no mistake was made about who owned each part of her, who decided how they would be used.

Once Petyr filled her completely, he plunged in-and-out without further hesitation. He was neither gentle, nor rough. He simply took, moving into her at the pace that pleased him.

It did not seem to matter, even as his thighs chaffed Sansa’s burning, red bottom --even when Petyr thrust hard as he came, to the hilt, filling her completely with exquisite pain --

_Sansa’s cunt was soaked._

#

She felt dazed when Petyr scooped her up and carried her in his arms, gently laying her on the bed, face-down.

He left her to wash himself and to retrieve the ointment for her bottom. Petyr must have been gone at least a minute or two, but to Sansa it might have been only a few seconds, or as long as an hour. All the pain had only increased the pooling wetness between her legs. Sharpened her ache for his cock. Heightened the strange sensation of floating, flying.

Spellbound. _To_ Petyr. _By_ Petyr.

Adrift, tethered only to the earth through Petyr.

His cool hands touched her rear, marking his return, and Sansa couldn’t take it anymore.

She flipped herself over. It was a sloppy effort, her limbs didn’t seem to work and Petyr had to help her.

“Please, Petyr,” Sansa cooed, clinging to his shoulders and letting her legs fall, splayed. She needed him to reel her down.

He titled his head and studied her face.

Gods, he was gorgeous in the candlelight.

She could see his mind working behind his green-gray eyes, but didn’t know what he was thinking. Her own eyes felt heavy, hooded; her mouth, parted in desire.

She wondered if her heart pounded so fiercely against her ribcage that he could see it.      

“Petyr. _Petyr,_ I love you.”

Petyr's eyes softened, wrinkling at the corners as he smiled.

“I’ve known that for a while.”

Then she saw the hunger flash across his face, the lust in his stare.

“I just didn’t know if you did.”

He bent down and kissed her deeply, tongue greedily probing the depths of Sansa’s mouth. She moaned into his, pushing her breasts up against his chest.

The silly girl she’d been at five-and-ten wondered if it was possible to die from love, because Sansa felt on the verge of simply bursting.

But she wasn’t that girl anymore. She was something better now.

Petyr moved between her legs and Sansa wanted to cry in relief.

He drove into her sopping cunt and she whined. Her head fell back, she arched.

She couldn’t stop clutching at his shoulders and arms as she bucked.

Sansa needed the pressure _so_ badly, she’d waited _so_ long.

She loved Petyr _so_ much.

She called out to the gods, to Petyr. Shaking and swearing her love.

It wasn’t like their previous encounters. It left them all behind. Sansa came, orgasm wracking her body with such a tremble Petyr had to hold her down while he fucked her.

#

Sansa still trembled.

Petyr still held her tightly. Stroked her face, her sides, her hips. He seemed to sense she needed contact, needed his touch to feel grounded once more. She focused on his hands, the strong heartbeat she could feel against his chest.

“I love you. Petyr, I love you,” Sansa whispered, dazed and dizzy.

He smiled. This time with a smug curl to one side.

“If I’d have known severe discipline was all it took, I’d have made good on the threat to have you whipped the night you tried to slit my throat.”

“So…” her voice was barely audible, just a breath, _“cocky.”_

Petyr licked his lips, his grin widened.

“Anything less would fail to be persistent enough to possess the famously indifferent Queen in the North.”

“A simple ‘I love you too’ would have sufficed,” Sansa said.

“I told you I love you more than any other, back at the Vale,” Petyr rasped. “I told you I love you when I said I would punish you. I told you I love you when I returned to you the North. When I tied you to your bed and licked your cunt until you screamed. When I made your ring from my own. When I sent my wheelhouse to Winterfell to bring you here. Each and every time I stroked your hair or lifted your chin. I’ve been telling you I love you since the beginning.”

“I’m a slow learner. Keep telling me. Don’t ever stop,” Sansa said, locking eyes with Petyr.

His stony gaze looked _through_ her and she loved it. The way his dark stare could penetrate her mind, as if she could never hide from him. She _wanted_ him to see all of her.

He was everything.

The demon lord of the Seven Hells.

_The gods themselves._

Sansa blinked, imagining Petyr like the Father - teaching her, preparing her, doling out punishment. The Smith, as he worked to rebuild the city, the entire kingdom. The Warrior, who’d come to save her in the Eyrie, who kept her safe in his castle, who’d never let anyone harm her. He was even a frightening bit of the Stranger when he disciplined her, that unknowable other. As if they were one, but separate. A part of him a mystery to her, enabling him to forever keep her on her toes.

 _And Petyr felt the same about her,_ Sansa realized, awed. He’d said as much the day before. She was the Maiden to him now. She would be the Mother of his children, soon enough. And he’d pledged his unwavering devotion when she aged, when her bones grew brittle and her hair faded to gray, like the Crone.

_And it ran deeper still._

A wave of fierce love washed over Sansa as she realized Petyr was, to her, linked in some way by the old gods as well. A part of him, the young boy who believed in songs and love, the part that hoped -- it had never fully left him. It connected them, like he’d imagined, through the wierwoods. It destined them, as she imagined, a love older than the trees.

Sansa wanted to tell Petyr all this. But she felt so limp, so weak, she couldn’t get all the words out.

“You are… the gods to me,” she said, voice quiet.

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I thought I was the lord of the Seven Hells.”

“Depends on the day,” Sansa let out a breathy laugh.  

“Remember that next time you think to drug me or run away,” Petyr cautioned. “Remember your punishment this evening.”

Sansa stroked the stubble of his beard, and he flashed his one-sided smirk. She reached for his hand and thread their fingers together. Leaning up, she kissed the red, puffy scar on Petyr’s chest, the line from arrow he took to protect her. Then she pulled him to her and kissed his mouth as passionately as if she could pour her heart into him, and swallow his in return.

Destined by the gods or not, escape had been pointless from the very beginning.

Petyr Baelish was a man who got what he wanted.

“Thank you for disciplining me,” she told him, dutifully, averting her eyes. “Thank you for all your many lessons, Lord Baelish. I shall never forget them.”

Petyr grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Sansa looked up, wide-eyed, biting her lip.

“To the contrary, my love. I think you will frequently forget them all within a fortnight or two. And I shall be forever forced to repeat them.”

Sansa whimpered as Petyr sealed his vow with a kiss, his words making her wet again.

Petyr Baelish was a man who got what he wanted.

And Sansa would have never believed it before he brought her to King’s Landing.

But she wanted all the same things too.


	30. Epilogue

Petyr and Sansa tried to honor their deal, when it mattered most. But neither could eradicate his or her behavior entirely.

Petyr swore he only lied to Sansa for her own good. But in truth, deceit as a handy tool was too deeply ingrained within him to fully cease.

Sansa was far too clever not to eventually discover his falseness on these occasions, and she never failed to make Petyr pay more for the matter in question, than he would have if he’d just been honest in the first place.

She suspected some masochistic part of him enjoyed her outwitting him, and suffering the consequences of her wrath.

Sansa also failed to keep her end of the deal, to obey Petyr’s commands without question or hesitation.

On these occasions, Petyr never failed to punish her more than if she would have just done as she was told in the first place.

He suspected some masochistic part of her enjoyed him overpowering her, and suffering the consequences of his authority.

#

King Petyr never followed through on his promise to have a new bedroom door crafted. Instead, he ordered a new tower built. Small enough that he and the queen could occupy the uppermost floor, alone, with guards posted below. It gave them privacy to do as they pleased, as well as views on all sides. Some mornings they watched the sun rise, over the sea, to the east. More often they watched it set sun set, over the city, to the west.

 

The same sculptors from their wedding day crafted a statue of the king and queen to forever grace the front gate of the Red Keep.

It did not come out as Petyr intended, but Sansa insisted it remain, just the same.

The statue showed a nearly middle-aged Petyr, carrying off his young bride in his arms.

The way the face had been carved, it was difficult to say whether anger or lust colored Petyr’s expression. From the angle of the statue’s arms, it was difficult to say whether his bride pushed him away in dread or pulled him towards her in ecstasy.

It never failed to make Sansa smile every time they entered or left the castle.

#

To the kingdom’s surprise, and with the help of Sansa’s Northmen as the newly-appointed Master of Laws, Petyr made one alternation to the code surrounding the marriages of high lords and ladies.

Any who wished to marry outside the nobility could make his or her case, for fair consideration, before the king.

And so, Lord Tyrion and Lady Ros were married.

As well as a number of other men and women who brought, _coincidentally,_ if not noble blood to court, several financial gains and trade advantages to the Baelish crown.

#

Petyr and Sansa could talk for hours, or remain entirely comfortable in long periods of quietude, side-by-side.

But when they argued, heat boiled beneath their icy stares and frosty silences.

During one of their worst disagreements, Petyr went ahead and did what he wanted anyway, choosing, as usual, to sway Sansa to his side after it had been completed.

Queen Sansa had not yet mastered her temper the way Petyr had learned to do, over the years.

When she heard of his actions, she unleashed her fury, nails digging half-moon circles into her shaking palms, voice carrying out past the closed door, barely able to form sentences as words tumbled out of her mouth.

Petyr, in contrast, grew still.

Much like he had when Sansa goaded him the night of their first dinner negotiations, when he brought in whores to unnerve her, and she kissed one in defiance. The night she wound up over his knees for the first time.

Sansa was too busy ranting to notice.

Until Petyr called the kingsguard into the room.

“Bring the queen to our chambers and tie her to the bed. Gag her. Cut off her gown. But do not turn your head to look, or I’ll be forced to separate it from your shoulders.”

Disbelief caused Sansa to take slow, sluggish seconds to comprehend Petyr’s words.

The kingsguard had faster reflexes, and they seized her.

Sansa’s skin burned with indignation as they dragged her up to her bedroom. Fierce pride was the only thing keeping her from shouting her shame to the castle.

At least until the door to her room slammed shut.

Following the king’s orders, the kingsguard tied her to the bedposts and silenced her screams with a gag.

Removing her gown without looking, without touching, proved a trickier task.

Sansa might have laughed if she wasn’t shaking with rage.

Fumbling with a small dagger, the white cloaks stripped her of her gown and the little small clothes she wore under the new fashion of dress.

They departed _quickly._

Petyr did not arrive as hastily.

Sansa trashed, naked, spread on the bed, knowing he was drawing out the degradation.

Did he think she’d forgive him? She was going to _kill_ him when she was free.

It wasn’t until Petyr finally arrived that Sansa realized she was wet, and she became furious with herself, as well.

He licked his _godsdamn_ teeth when he saw her, and Sansa saw red.

Helpless, she had no defense as Petyr brought her to the most confounding orgasms with his hands and mouth, twice.

He entered her slick folds with a massive erection next, and she could do nothing to stop him. Sansa was livid, mortified… and never more turned on.

Petyr was too, because he finished well before she had a chance to catch up.

“We’re not leaving this room until we settle this disagreement,” he told her, breath finally calmed after spending his seed inside her.

“Is that understood?”

Gagged, Sansa could only nod.

“I’m going to untie you. I’m going to fuck you again. And Sansa… I think it’s time we forgo the moon tea.”

Her eyes widened. Now? At a time like _this?_ _This_ is when Petyr decided they should try to make an heir?

In her head, Sansa laughed. She nodded her lie. Let him think what he wanted… the moment she was free she was going to scratch his bloody eyes out…

But the moment she was free of her bonds, Petyr knew exactly what she intended.

He grabbed Sansa’s wrists and pinned them above her head. He fucked her as she alternated between cursing him and begging him to _keep going there, harder._ Her hands balled into fists, but her hips canted to meet his thrusts, grinding for pressure.

Petyr lasted longer and this time and Sansa came undone, stars bursting behind her eyes.

He held her in the cage of his arms until she calmed down.

They talked into the night and when the sun came up, Sansa woke, allowing Petyr’s seed to remain in her womb, undeterred by herbs.

#

They did, in fact, conceive a child that night.

She’d never seen Petyr more excited when she missed her courses. He’d never seen her with such a glow.

But a new argument began, as Sansa wanted the law changed so that any first born, male _or_ female, would ascend to the throne.  

In theory, Petyr agreed.

In practice, he said it would spell the end of their reign.

The kingdom wasn’t ready.

When both their first and second child were born male, Sansa suspected Petyr manipulated their beddings to ensure a boy, some kind of whoremonger’s trickery.

Petyr found it amusing that he had a difficult time convincing her otherwise.

Morwyn, their first born, had a face that echoed the handsome features of her late brother Robb, with a matching head of auburn to boot. From Sansa he inherited wide, crystal blue eyes and plump, pouty lips. He grew tall, good with a sword and keen to hunt with hawk or hound. He was every inch a dashing prince, who caused the ladies to blush and stammer and contrive thinly-veiled reasons to cross his path or stand beside him.

The similarity to a Stark ended there.

Behind the rugged good looks of a Northman, his mind plotted _exactly_ like Petyr’s. Conniving, conspiring, less inclined to consider outcomes other than those that suited himself. He was not unkind or cruel, any more than Petyr, but he was every inch his father’s son when it came to navigating court.

It was disconcerting for Sansa to look into the blue of her own eyes and see the schemes of Petyr behind them.

But no matter how old he grew, Morwyn always maintained a soft, tender affection for his mother, and Sansa wondered if Petyr would have been the same, given the chance.

Her second son, Bradyn, reversed the outcome. He was, astoundingly, the spitting image of Petyr. Slight, dark hair, green-gray eyes, thin lips.

But his mild-mannered nature and compassion far surpassed even Sansa’s. In truth, she wasn’t sure where it came from. Perhaps, if she or Petyr or any of the Starks had been able to grow without the horrors they witnessed, they might resemble Bradyn. He enjoyed listening to the birds sing, learning the names of all the plants in the garden, studying the stars.

 

The year before Sansa gave birth to her first son, Prince Jon and Princess Ygritte had a daughter, Lannia, and Petyr was only slightly pleased that it wasn’t male. He still viewed the secret Targaryen blood as a significant threat to his crown. He disliked the unnervingly close similarity to Jon’s mother’s name, Lyanna.

When the Starks of Winterfell gave birth to a set of boy-and-girl twins the following year, Petyr was even more concerned.  

But the twins proved more wildling than Stark. Riding bareback, fishing with spears, communing with nature, lost in the woods at every turn. They had no inclination to come court or to stay inside the gate of any castle. Prince Jon worried he’d be able to keep them this side of the wall at all.

The princess Lannia was feisty, as well. More headstrong than even Sansa. Part wolf, part dragon, part wildling. But she was intelligent, too, and, unlike the twins, with no such aversion to politics.

So it was a blessing and a curse when, on a visit to Winterfell, the crown prince fell in love with her.

Petyr was _thrilled_ to make the betrothal and bring the Targaryen girl into the royal family.

The headstrong girl happily accepted the match, unabashedly flirting with the handsome prince at every turn, much as her mother had done with her father.

Lannia had her first child, the future heir to the throne, six months after she and Morwyn married.

The court graciously pretended it couldn’t count.

The boy was to be the first of seven children. Years later, when Prince Jon’s twins still showed no interest in running a castle, and Jon had no further heirs, King Petyr realized his second-born grandchild, a girl of Baelish blood, might inherit Winterfell, and he was just _delighted._

 

Sansa’s second born son, Bradyn, fell in love with a fair, soft-spoken Lannister -- the remaining heir to Casterly Rock, after Tyrion renounced his claim. She was a distant cousin of the imp’s, whose life would not have been destined for titles and riches, had such devastation not wracked her house. It was a common story for many families in the wake of the wars before Petyr’s reign.

King Petyr had arranged for the sweet girl to spend a year at court, in close quarters to Bradyn.

He was hardly surprised when his son and the pretty Lannister heir announced they’d fallen in love.

Sansa crossed her arms and scowled at her husband.

Neither was she.

#

King Petyr and Queen Sansa’s reign was prosperous, their lives blessed with grandchildren - though they had no more sons, nor any daughters. Sansa’s second birthing had been difficult, and the maester advised that she bear no more children. But with so many granddaughters and so much joy, Sansa never felt she’d missed out.

It was a lively court, as it had been before she and Petyr married. The king frequently brought in dancers, actors, bards and storytellers, mummers and fools and exotic entertainers from across the Narrow Sea. They had another tournament every time Sansa turned around, new knights continually sprouting up in the fertile soil of the Baelish reign.

In the evenings, the king and queen feasted with the lords and ladies of the court… or alone, in their bedchambers. They practiced timing their trysts with her moon blood, but kept a handy dose of tansy tea nearby, for passionate occasions in between.

As she’d hoped, Petyr often took Sansa on trips to different keeps in the nearby countryside, in the woods or by the sea. Twice they visited Dorne, and Winterfell several times more. When back in King’s Landing, Petyr never again held another council meeting without Sansa’s knowledge.

And even when she reached the age Petyr had been when they first met – and beyond - he still turned her over his desk every time she misbehaved.

#

In Sansa’s sixty-eighth year, a ship from the Summer Isles sailed into Blackwater Bay, carrying spices and lace.

And plague.

Sansa was one of the first to touch the new shipment of cloth, and she fell ill with the strange disease.

Petyr quickly deduced the shipmates had purposely hidden knowledge of the plague, creeping through the crew as they traveled. They might have been too stupid to realize the cause. They were certainly too cruel to care much about its spread.  

When his love fell ill, Petyr burned the ship, with all the men aboard locked inside.

When the maester could no longer offer hope that Sansa would survive the disease, Petyr went mad.

She had lived a long life, and he even longer, Sansa consoled him. Nearly ninety, Littlefinger was an old man. He’d come down with a persistent cough the winter prior, and sometimes Sansa felt as if his body was ready to go, but he simply refused to leave the earth when she still walked it. They'd set forth a new dynasty to last a thousand years. They'd shared a love she wouldn't have believed possible, if she hadn't experienced it herself. What more could they have ever possibly asked for?

Sansa tried to tell him as much, while she still had breath. It only seemed to anger him further, any talk of her leaving, of going somewhere he couldn’t follow.

Desperate, he commanded her, as her king, as her _master,_ not to leave, to hold on, to stay with him.

In this one act, she had no choice but to disobey him.

“You once promised to find me, my love. Wherever we go after death,” Sansa whispered, smiling sadly. “Find me, Petyr. Punish me there.”

She died in Petyr’s arms that evening.

 

The king’s wroth was a terrible thing.

On the first day after her death, Petyr burned each ship anchored nearby the one that sailed with death. Many boats still had men aboard, hastily jumping off the fiery masts, screaming into the ocean. Without consulting council, he banned trade from the Summer Isles for one hundred years. He ordered every soul, save his family, from his sight. Then he ordered them from the keep, turning hundreds of lords, ladies, and servants out into the streets of the capitol.

On the second day, an eerie calm came over the king. He spoke to almost no one, stared quietly ahead. But he recanted, allowing the stranded staff, the anxious nobles, back into the keep.

He honored Sansa’s wishes, burning his wife in a funeral pyre and collecting the ashes in an urn. He placed it beside his bed, and went to sleep early that night.

On the morning of the third day, his guards found King Petyr, cold in his bed, rigid hands clutching a thin braid of red hair to his chest. Near his heart.

#

Morwyn and Bradyn followed their parent’s wishes.

They burnt the king in a pyre of his own. When the smoke died, they collected the debris and mixed the ashes with those of their mother, twining their parents in death.

Facing east, from the balcony of Petyr and Sansa’s bedroom, their sons cast the ashes toward the bay. They watched them float over the Narrow Sea, as the king and queen had watched so many sunrises from the same spot.

To the west, their sons sprinkled the ashes into the air above King’s Landing, from the balcony Petyr and Sansa had watched their kingdom grow, watched so many sunsets together.

As Morwyn and Brandyn tossed handfuls west, a wind picked up so suddenly, so strong, that the moment seemed marked by a bit of magic.

 

The following year, weirwood saplings grew across the kingdom, as they’d done in the age of the Children of the Forest, and the First Men.

Some said it was caused by the unusual heat, the extraordinarily long summers gracing King Petyr and Queen Sansa’s reign.

Some recalled the gust of wind that blew the day the royal brothers tossed Petyr and Sansa’s comingled ashes off the balcony and out across the realm.

Those who remembered that day told the tale of a heart tree having sprouted, wherever the lover’s ashes fell.


End file.
